Set Me Free
by JoeyBug
Summary: PostSeason 2. Ketamine doesn't work, and it leaves House in so much pain that he cannot walk by himself anymore, so Wilson has to take care of him. Prompt from hwfest
1. The Fall

Pain was both his best friend and his worst enemy, one because it made him feel alive, made him realise that he hadn't died from the infarction and the other because it made him half a person, someone who had to depend on pills to live which is why he'd been so adamant about the ketamine, so hopeful that it would work, so desperate even, emotions that people would not usually ascribe to the great Dr. House.

He could pinpoint the second he'd known it wasn't going to work. After coming home from the hospital, with slight improvment and only dependant on the Vicodin, it became a monster slowly creeping out from under the bed, attacking him and eating away at his mobility piece by piece. He knew it wouldn't be long until someone noticed and he was sure that _someone_ would probably be Wilson who would be full of great ideas of what to try because he just didn't understand that there was _nothing_ else to try, he had tried it all and the Ketamine had been the last resort, a glimmering light at the end of the darkened tunnel which someone had turned off with an evil giggle.

It was a Friday night, he'd been home recovering for a week and was due back to work on the following Monday. Wilson had made plans with some old college buddy who was in town for the weekend and had made it clear to House that he'd cancel if House needed some company. He'd told Wilson to go because he knew that it was going to happen this weekend and he didn't want his friend to be there to see it happen, he wanted to be alone, to battle against his own monsters without an audience. He sat and watched _The L Word _on mute before heading to bed to get some rest. He dry swallowed a Vicodin and stood and took tenative steps towards his bedroom, leaning heavily on his cane. It was then that the monster took the final swipe from under him and he fell to the floor. Pain radiated through his leg and he cried out as he gripped it, desperate for something to work to stop it hurting. He felt tears of pain that he had not shed since the day of the infarction roll down his cheeks as he tried to find a comfortable postion on the floor that would alliveate his agony. There was no such position, just pain, lots and lots of pain. He grappled through his pyjama bottoms and found his Vicodin bottle, snapped the top off and swallowed another tablet dry and then he let his head drop so that he was sprawled on the floor, telling himself that once the medication kicked in he'd be able to move to his bed where he'd be more comfortable.

He waited and waited for the rush of the Vicodin, but when it came it was like a small flat wave when he'd been expected a massive one he could surf on for a few hours. Something was very wrong and he knew that no matter how much he wanted to deny it, there was no way he could get through this alone, he would have to call Wilson. 

Except he couldn't move, he tried to shift himself across the floor, beads of sweat breaking out across his forehead, towards to phone to page Wilson, but any movement just jarred his leg and made him cry out. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place literally. He couldn't just lie there until Monday morning when Wilson would pick him up for work and he couldn't move to do anything about it, he forced himself to shuffle out of his dressing gown – a move that caused more tears of agony and blood to fall from his lip where he was biting it so hard to stop himself crying out again. Once it was off, he waited to catch his breath and positioned it under his right leg, hoping it would at least stop it from seizing up for the time he was on the floor. Deep down he knew that it would probably make no difference, it would be a long time before he could put weight on his leg again, but it was a small comfort as he lay on his hard wooded floor. He took his watch off and lay it in his eye line by his head and closed his eyes, maybe if he could relax enough he could sleep and then the time would pass quicker, maybe after some sleep his leg would be more co-operative. Maybe...

* * *

He shivered in his daze jolting his leg again, and his eyes shot open as the pain revered through him. His watch told him only twelve hours had passed and he had a new problem, he needed to pee, he needed to pee really bad. He tried shifting towards the phone again and managed to move an inch before he had to stop, crying out in pain and rubbing his thigh to try to relive the pain throbbing through it. He dry swallowed two more Vicodin and laid his head back down, trying not to think about the pain in his leg or the pain in his bladder, desperate for him to relive the pressure of its fullness.

He lay there for another hour before he lost control of his bladder and wet himself. The warm urine dripped onto the floor below him and he felt disgusted with himself, he was a grown man peeing on the floor because he couldn't make it to the bathroom. He was pathetic. Fuelled by anger and disgust, he shifted himself another few centimetres closer to the phone, the Vicodin he had taken early had not even touched the pain and he knew then for sure that he really was in trouble. He was sweating profusely and he was sure that he was running a temperature from the stress his body was under. Screw Wilson, right now he would have kissed a burglar breaking in so long as it got someone who would get him off the floor and out of his urine sodden clothes and closer to the morphine he kept hidden away. 

The phone was in reality about another 10 inches across the room from him, but it looked like miles and now that the Vicodin wasn't helping at all any movement was like crushing glass into an open wound. He tried to force himself to move, but failed to go any further when his leg spasmed, causing him to curl into the foetal position and cry out in agony.

* * *

He must have passed out from the pain because when he came to, it was late afternoon and he figured he must have been on the floor for a good eighteen hours and sometime while he'd been out, he'd relieved himself again because he pyjamas were wet again. He cursed his body for betraying him again and dry swallowed some more Vicodin, he refused to believe that it wasn't doing _something_. His heart was racing and he was wet from sweat and urine and he smelt awful. Whoever found him would probably think he was dead and had started to decompose. He looked at the telephone and taking a deep breath, pulled himself another inch closer. He struggled to catch his breath and deal with the agonising pain at the same time. "I'm going to die here," he thought to himself.

* * *

Another twelve hours passed as House drifted in and out of consciousness, he wasn't getting enough oxygen because the pain was so bad and was shivering even though he was covered in sweat and urine. His body was beginning to shut down from the pain, he wasn't drinking and his body was allowing the precious fluids it did have to come out in urine and sweat. He stomached twisted and he knew that he was going to be sick, he rolled over in time, but because he was in a haze he was unable to miss himself. "Great," he mumbled. "Now I'm covered in two of the three most disgusting bodily fluids." He had given up taking the Vicodin and as the time passed, his body started to go into withdrawal. He moved when he could and during the past twelve hours had managed to move another 5 inches, but he was exhausted and slowly losing his battle against the pain. It was driving him crazy and taking his life piece by piece with it.

He vomited again as his stomach spasmed, a reaction to not having any Vicodin in his system, he knew what was coming before it happened but he cried out and willed his body to not betray him one final time. The pain monster was in control now, not him, and the worst happened as he soiled himself. Another wave of pain hit him and he rolled onto his back sobbing, hoping someone would hear him and come rescue him. _Where are you, Wilson?_

* * *

At 6am, House threw up again, and managed to hit the phone with his cane, stretching out as far as he could.

At 6:05am, House crawled to the handset.

At 6:06am, he dialled Wilson's pager number.

At 6:08am, Wilson called back

At 6:09am, House found the breath to say "Save me" before passing out in his own pool of vomit and dropping the phone.


	2. The Rescue

"House? What are you doing calling me now? I've only had three hours sleep, was out partying with Craig. What's wrong?" Wilson said, blearily into the phone when House answered. The other end of the phone was silent, which should have been his first clue that something was wrong, but he was still half asleep and didn't click until House gasped down the phone.

"Save me." Then it all went silent.

Wilson sprung into action straight away, not bothering to get dressed, just made himself decent in his pyjamas, pulled his coat on, grabbed his keys, making sure that House's key was on the ring and headed out to his car.

The streets weren't as deserted as they should have been on a Sunday morning, but somehow he managed to drive through any traffic and still make it to House's place within fifteen minutes. He parked the card carefully, having calmed down on the ride over and having decided that it was probably nothing, maybe House had gotten drunk and got himself into a situation that needed some home hospital care that he knew his good old friend Wilson would do for him. Yeah, that was probably it.

He knocked on the door and hearing no reply, used his key. It was the smell that hit him first, it was a mixture of sweat, vomit, urine and faeces and he knew then that whatever had happened was bad, it was very bad. He found House lying in a pool of vomit, unconscious, and hot to the touch. Before he did anything else, he headed back out to his car and pulled his doctors bag from the trunk of his car, then he shut House's front door and headed into the bathroom where he grabbed towels, flannels, anything that would help clean up the mess his friend was in.

First things first, he had to make sure House was okay so, slipping on some gloves he shook his friend slightly.

"Greg, open your eyes for me," he said, loudly. House murmured, but still remained out of it, so Wilson pulled out his penlight and opened House's lids to check his pupils. They were sluggish, but fine and it caused House to open his eyes.

"I need the morphine, Jimmy," he stammered, shivering and crying out and grabbing his right leg when another wave of pain crashed over him.

"What happened, House? I'll get the morphine if you tell me what happened," Wilson told him, aware that when House used his first name it was serious.

"Leg, gave out, Vicodin won't touch it, couldn't move, can't move, Jimmy. Make it stop hurting, please," he replied. He was talking in short gasps of breath, while Wilson took his pulse, which was too fast for his liking. House's eyes were sunken, meaning he was dehydrated, how long had he been like this and why hadn't he called sooner?

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Phone too far."

"When did this happen?"

"Friday at 10pm, watched L Word, tried to go to bed, fell, couldn't get up," House said, his eyes closing again. Wilson slapped his face gently. 

"No sleeping, House. You're in shock. I've gotta get you into hospital."

"Not like this, I'll be better with morphine. Please," he pleaded.

Wilson had a choice to make; did he clean his friend up before admitting him? Did he risk it? Or did he allow paramedics to come and a nurse to clean House at PPTH? When he knew it would get round the hospital? After the shooting, House deserved all the dignity he could get, especially when Wilson took in how serious this could be in the long term. If House couldn't walk anymore, he'd be stuck in a wheelchair and Wilson honestly thought that very notion would kill his friend.

"Okay, House, listen to me. I'm gonna clean you up, give you some morphine, but you have to stay with me. You start drifting off and I can't wake you, I'm gonna dial 911 so fast."

House nodded, then grabbed his leg in pain. He needed the pain relief fast as Wilson calculated that he'd been on the floor for thirty-two hours.

Leaving his friends side for only a few minutes and talking loudly from the bathroom to keep House alert, he filled a bowl with water, returned and began to wipe the vomit from his face. He cut off House's t-shirt, which was met with no protest, another sign of just how sick House was right then. He gave House a bed bath, cutting off his pyjamas too and making sure all traces of vomit and faeces were gone before the paramedics would arrive. He then headed into House bedroom, grabbed a clean dressing gown to put on him and the box where House kept his supply of morphine.

"I gotta get you decent first, House. If I support you, do you think you can sit up?"

House blearily nodded, following Wilson's instructions and between the two of them they managed it, but it was punctured by cries of pain from House as they even ever so slightly moved his leg. Wilson was beginning to worry that something serious had happened with the nerves or something for House to be in so much pain. He just prayed it wasn't another infarction that would mean more pain and more operations and probably amputation whether House wanted it or not.

Once House was back lying on the floor, Wilson tied a tourniquet around his arm, drew up a large dose of morphine, noting it all on his latex gloved hand so he could pass it onto the paramedics, slapped House's arm to find a vein, and delivered the dose. He watched House's facial expression for a change, to note when the drug hit and about five minutes after the drug was in his system, he opened his eyes and looked at Wilson.

"Thank you, Jimmy."

"Is it all gone?"

"No, but it's bearable. I just want to sleep now." House closed his eyes again, but Wilson shook him. 

"I told you, no sleeping. You're in shock from being on the floor for thirty-two hours. You need IV fluids, and an MRI to see what's going on with that leg of yours."

"Can't you fix me?" House asked, dopey from the drug.

"I wish I could, House." He grabbed his cell phone and dialled 911, explained the situation and got House ready for the paramedics.

* * *

The paramedics arrived to find House unconscious, no amount of coaxing from Wilson had managed to keep him awake. Wilson was checking his pupils when the knock came at the door. He left his patient only briefly to let them in.

"Hi, this is Dr. Gregory House, had a fall approximately thirty-three hours ago now, was unable to summon help until an hour ago. He's tachy, going into shock and has periods of consciousness and, well, this. I've given him 50mg of morphine IV for the pain in his right leg, he had an infraction in his right thigh, six years ago now, tried a Ketamine coma, but it's obviously failed. I'm worried about further damage to his leg and his present state. Can we blue light him to PPTH? I've arranged a bed for him," Wilson explained.

The paramedics set to work, brining in a gurney to load House onto. Between the three of them they managed to lift him and as they did, House's eyes shot open and he screamed in pain. "STOP! For Christ Sake STOP!" he cried. They lowered him gently onto the gurney, pulled a blanket over his semi-naked form, and stepped back for Wilson to calm him down.

"It hurts too much, Jimmy. Just leave me here to die."

"You are not going to die, once we get you to the hospital, I can sort out some more pain meds, right now I don't have anything. We'll be as gentle as we can be, okay, I promise you. Hold my hand," he promised House.

Wilson felt House squeeze as they went down the steps and bite his already bleeding lip, so he knew that he was in a tremendous amount of pain. The ride to the hospital was full of painful squeezes and tears rolling down House's cheeks as he tried to hide the agony he was in, but he failed to hide it from his friend, the one who cared so much he could almost feel the pain through looking in House's eyes. 

Once they arrived, Lisa Cuddy met them at the ambulance entrance and watched as they pushed House to the room set aside for him. Wilson left him only briefly to grab the supplies he would need to set up an IV line and start some saline. She grabbed him them.

"Is it true he lay there for thirty-two hours in so much pain he couldn't move?" she asked.

"Yes, I gave him 10mg of IV morphine and it hasn't touched the pain to the point where he could move." His point was proven as they heard House being transferred onto the bed. Cuddy's eyes were lined with tears.

"He's in shock, tachy, needs fluids and a new MRI, but I think we're going to have to put him out until we can find the cause of this," Wilson admitted. 

"A chemical coma?" Cuddy clarified.

"It might be the only way to move him without it hurting him so much."

"Watch him for three hours, give him some more drugs, if you can't get on top of it or his heart shows signs of trouble page me and we'll do it. I'll come and see you in three hours if I don't hear from you before and we can discuss it more then," Cuddy said, giving Wilson a reassuring pat on the shoulder and walking away.

Wilson wrote up some strong IV painkillers to be brought through once House was settled and headed to set up the IV line.

House was awake, a sheen of fresh sweat was beading across his forehead and he was biting his lip so hard there was fresh blood on his face.

"Hey, buddy. How you doing?" he asked, pulling the stool over so that he was sat next to House's bed side.

"Make it go away, Jimmy. Set me free from the pain, please. I can't deal with it." House said in gasps, he couldn't breathe properly because of the amount of pain he was in. Wilson attached the nasal prongs to House's face and switched on the oxygen in hope that it would bring up his o2 saturations from the low nineties. His heartbeat was irregular and fast – another side effect from the amount of pain House was in.

"We're going to get a line started, try some different drugs and if they don't work, we might have to put you under while we run some tests. How does that sound?"

House could only nod as another wave of pain hit him full on. He let out a gasp and half a cry, biting his lip as he tried to ride it out.

"Stop doing that, you're bleeding."

House said nothing, just gave Wilson a scathing look. Wilson grabbed House's left arm, swabbed his hand and slipped an IV in while House was preoccupied, he then attached the saline and pressed the buzzer for the nurse to bring in the medications.

"This is fentanyl, it'll make the morphine stronger," Wilson explained, pushing it through the IV. He waited for it to hit and saw House visibly relax as it did. Maybe, they'd be able to figure this out without the use of a chemical coma.

* * *

An hour and a half later, House was back in the same amount of pain he'd been in before and Wilson had run out of options. He couldn't give him any more narcotics because of his erratic heartbeat and slow breathing. He decided that they had no choice but to put Greg under for the tests, as there was no other way they could move him without causing him immense pain. He paged Cuddy who responded personally.

"I was on the floor anyway, I had a feeling you'd need me," she said, after they'd stepped outside of House's room.

"It's time," Wilson said. "If I give him any more drugs he'll crash and I think he'll crash soon anyway because of the pressure the pain is putting on his heart and lungs. His sats are still the low nineties on 40 o2 and he's being rehydrated, I got a nurse to cath him and he's producing urine. His body can't take much more of this."

"I'll get the drugs, you get ready to tube him, and tell him what we're doing."

Cuddy went towards the nurses desk and Wilson re-entered the room, House was laying with his eyes closed, they were still sunken which meant he was still pretty dehydrated but they were running out of time and this was the right thing to do, give his body a break from the pain, a chance to get an MRI and a chance to recover from this attack of whatever it was.

"Greg," Wilson said, softly. House opened his red-rimmed eyes and looked at his best friend. "We're gonna put you under for a while, just while we find out what's going on, your body can't cope with this much pain all the time and we need to know what's going on. That okay?"

"Promise me," House gasped.

"What?"

"Don't take my leg, swear it," House said, staring dead on into Wilson's eyes.

"I promise they won't."

Cuddy appeared with a tray full of drugs and the equipment to intubate House. They moved the bed, laying it flat, so that Wilson was at the head, with the pillows removed so that House was lying dead flat on the bed and Cuddy started to push the drugs. They didn't take long to have an effect and pretty soon House was out and Wilson was slipping a tube expertly into his lungs. Now all they had to do was work out what was causing the excess pain.


	3. Surgery

The porters came and wheeled House to the MRI machine; Wilson took charge of ventilating him as they pushed him and his drips. They had started him on a high dose morphine drip in hope that once they had run the tests, they would be able to wake House up without him being in as much pain as before. Wilson was concerned that somehow House had had another infarction and that he wouldn't be able to keep the promise he'd made House before they put him under, there was a chance that if something else had happened with the leg, then he would lose it, there wasn't many other treatment options available to him.

The MRI showed more nerve damage to House's right thigh, no one was really sure what had caused it, there was no apparent injury to House's leg, no history of a serious fall other than the one that had landed him in there, but Wilson protested that House hadn't fallen, his leg had given out. Masterson was called and he felt that the best way forward was exploratory surgery, see if there was any medical reason for the nerve damage and if there was something they could do to ease House's pain.

They took him straight down to theatre, planning to reduce his sedation following the surgery to see if it had helped ease his pain. Wilson planned to watch the surgery, not wanting to leave his friend at any step of the way because of his absence after the infarction six years ago.

"His team need to be told," Cuddy said, as she joined Wilson in the observation room.

"Can you take care of that?" Wilson asked, not taking his eyes off House.

"It wasn't your fault, Wilson."

"I shouldn't have gone out with Craig, I should have seen the signs, they were there, or I should have called to check on him. Maybe then he wouldn't have lay there for thirty-two fucking hours."

"He wouldn't have been able to answer."

"But I would have known something was wrong and I could have gone round sooner and I would have found him before he went into shock. Maybe if he'd had the morphine sooner, he wouldn't have been in so much pain when I did find him."

"You saw the MRI, it would have happened no matter who was there. If he hadn't been so stubborn and had said something, we could have dealt with it before it got this bad."

"You know House, he never admits to anything until it's too late."

"Someone still needs to inform his team," Cuddy said, going back to the original subject.

"I'm not leaving him, Cuddy. You'll have to do it."

"I think it would be better coming from you. Don't make me pull rank on you." Wilson looked over at her.

"You wouldn't."

She sighed, "no, I wouldn't, but it would be better coming from you."

"I promised him I wouldn't leave and I'm not going back on that promise," Wilson said, making it clear that he wasn't going anywhere.

"I'll tell them," Cuddy said, half whispering. She didn't know if Wilson would cope if they had to amputate, he'd made it clear that as House's medical proxy, he would not sign the consent to amputate, but as House's doctor, Cuddy knew that it was going to be a viable option as there was little chance of House recovering enough to go back to using a cane. There was little chance of him ever being independent again and although she knew Wilson would care for House if he had to, but House wouldn't take it lightly. She sighed to herself and headed off to inform House's team that their boss would not be returning to work for an indefinite time.

* * *

Wilson was sat at House's bedside, waiting for his friend to wake up after the surgery. The anaesthesiologist had said he should wake up anytime from an hour to a day after the surgery and considering what they had discovered during the surgery, Wilson was adamant he would be the one to share the news with House and if that meant not leaving his side until then, so be it.

Cuddy had told Cameron, Chase and Foreman and as expected they had had different reactions, though all were concerned as to the outcome of House's surgery. She had forbidden them from visiting, but said that they would be kept informed as to his progress.

The surgery had gone well, but had thrown up several problems. They had had no choice but to deaden the nerves temporarily to ease some of House's pain, but it was by no means anything but a temporary measure and the pain would return unless they were able to remove the dead muscle around the area of the infarction. They ultimately wanted to amputate, but knew that there was no consent for that and had had no choice but to leave the dead muscle and wait for House to wake up and tell them whether they could go ahead. One thing was certain though – House would not be able to bear weight with the dead muscle or without it. Arrangements have been made for him to have a wheelchair delivered to his room and whether he liked it or not, it was going to be his life from now on.

Twelve hours after the surgery, House started to stir. Wilson, who had been dozing in the chair next to his bed was awake and alert before House's eyes were open. He grabbed House's hand, letting him know that he was there.

"Are you in any pain?" he asked, once House's eyes were open. House nodded and Wilson pressed the boost button on his morphine drip.

"What happened?" House said, still gasping slightly. 

"The MRI showed nerve damage and Masterson felt it was best to operate straight away, they paralysed the nerves temporarily, but the best option is to remove the dead muscle."

"No, it'll inhibit my mobility more," House stammered.

"House, you won't be able to walk no matter what they do, the damage is too severe. Cuddy ordered you a wheelchair, once you've recovered from surgery and made your decision as to whether they can remove the rest of the dead muscle, they'll start you on in-patient PT," Wilson explained.

"But if I can't walk what's the point of PT?" House asked, his voice rising as he nibbled at his healing lip as another wave of pain hit him. He could get through this, the pain would pass and he'd prove them wrong, he'd walk. He **had** to walk, how else would be do his job? There was no way he was becoming a fully-fledged cripple over this.

"To prevent more damage," Wilson said, softly.

"Fuck them! They're wrong, this is all bullshit!" he cried, jarring his leg as he thrashed on the bed. "Fuck! I need more morphine!"

Wilson pressed the boost button again, shooting more morphine into House's already over-loaded system. He hated seeing his friend like this, but he knew that they were right, he'd seen the post-operative report, he'd seen the MRI and he knew deep down that the House of the days before his fall was not coming back. House was going to require an amount of care that he could not provide for himself and Wilson planned to stay with him every step of the way.

"Look, it won't be so bad, we'll hire you a really nice nurse and although you'll probably be sued for sexual harassment, it doesn't matter, we'll just use a different agency every time," Wilson said, trying to make his friend smile. He knew that the road ahead of them was rocky and whatever laughs he could get out of it, he'd take, because he knew that right now House's life was in the same place it had been six years ago, only this time there was no light at the end of the tunnel because House knew all that would occur now and none of it was good.

"Leave me alone," House muttered, turning his head away so he was looking at the wall.

* * *

The weeks that followed were full of pain for House as they struggled to find a drug combination that would control his pain, they had settled on a large dose of Oxycodone with top ups of Severdol, a type of morphine. However, as the days went by House got more and more withdrawn from the situation and said nothing the few times he'd been lifted from his bed into his wheelchair. He refused to eat, was still on fluids to stop him getting dehydrated and there were discussions of a permanent catheter to at least save his dignity when it came to needing the bathroom. 

Wilson had taken on the role of being his caretaker, learning the exercises they had to do on House three times a day to prevent more muscle wastage, and occasionally he managed to get a bit of a conversation going between him and House, as if House had forgotten what had happened and it was like the old days again, but then the pain would return and he'd become silent as if it was his own way of controlling it. He certainly couldn't get House to open up, at least not until it became time for him to go home. 

House had quickly decided against anymore surgery, saying that if they removed more muscle his chances of walking again went out the window. No one had yet been able to convince him that the chances of him walking again were already slim to nothing whether he had the surgery or not, the only thing it would change would be the level of pain he was in. House's answer had been "I've lived with pain before, I can again." 

After weeks of rehab and chopping and changing of medication, it was time for House to be discharged into Wilson's care, with the strict instructions that if he continued to lose weight and not drink fluids then he was to bring him back to the hospital as soon as possible for re-admittance. The day came and Wilson slowly began packing up the clothes and things House had accumulated during his many weeks in the hospital. He'd already collected a month's supply of House's medication from the pharmacy and House's new wheelchair had arrived, but he had yet to get House dressed and into it. Part of him was scared to step into the role of House's carer, scared it would change their friendship for good and that House would pull away from him even more and he knew that without him, there was no way House was going to get through this.

"Okay, time to get you ready, House," Wilson said, taking a deep breath and jumping into the role with both feet.

"I'm not a child, Jimmy. I can do it myself," House snapped. Wilson handed him the clothes and House snatched them off him, sitting forward and lowering his gown. He removed the pads that were monitoring his heart, setting the alarm off, which made Wilson sigh again and move to switch off the beeping machine before any nurses came rushing in with the crash cart. House managed to get his t-shirt on without any problems, but struck problems when it came to his bottom half. He could put no weight on his right leg without it giving way, and there was no way he could get his jeans on without help. Wilson waited for House to ask for help, but he should have known that wouldn't happen.

House swung his left leg over the side of the bed with ease, and used his arms to gently move his right; soon he was in a sitting position, the catheter tube snaking through his legs. It had been agreed that it would stay in for a couple of weeks to see how House coped at home with it. Wilson had enough spare kits for a month and would change it once a week, first giving House a chance to pee without it, Wilson had added bars to the bathroom while House had been in the hospital. House managed to pull one leg into his jeans, but then struck a problem with the catheter and moving his right leg. Wilson looked at him, begging him with his eyes to ask for help but he didn't, he put his left leg on the floor for support and tried to move his right into the jeans. The result was a spasm of pain, as well as getting caught in the catheter tube, finally, he accidentally put weight on his right leg, which gave out and had Wilson not been watching closely he would have ended up a heap on the floor.

"I got you, House," Wilson said, softly.

"Let me fall," House snapped. "It's fucking pathetic, I can't even get my fucking jeans on."

Wilson refused to let House go and instead shifted him so that he was sat back on the bed. "Let me do it," he said, praying that House would, for once, just accept his help.

"Is it gonna be like this from now on, Jimmy? You getting dressed, pushing me everywhere, wiping my fucking ass?"

"I'm not gonna push you everywhere, you have arms, you can use them and as for getting you dressed, once the pain meds get on top of the pain and you're more used to the tube you'll get yourself dressed and finally, I am not wiping your ass," Wilson told him, as he strapped the catheter bag to the bottom of House's right leg, being as gentle as possible. He then slipped the leg of the jeans over House's right foot and being as careful as possible pulled it up as far as it would go. He grabbed House's hands and placed them on his shoulders. "Put as much weight as you can on your left leg and the rest on me," he said, House did as he was told and Wilson pulled up the jeans, tucking the tube inside them so no one else could see he was catheterised and doing the jeans up. He put his arms round House's waist and shifted him, carrying most of his weight so that he was turned round with his back to the wheelchair and then carefully lowered him down.

"Hand me my cap, would you?" House asked, once he was sat comfortably. Wilson did so and House pulled it low over his eyes, he obviously didn't want to be recognised on the way out of the hospital. Gathering the bag with House's stuff in it and hanging it on the back of the wheelchair, he took the brakes off and pushed House out of the hospital.


	4. Getting Worse

Due to the high amounts of morphine he was taking to control the pain, House slept a lot. The hope was that as time went on they would be able to reduce the dosage or House would get more used to it and be able to function whilst still controlling the pain. Since coming home House had eaten sparingly and kept enough fluids in him to avoid being taken back to the hospital, but as time went on he became more and more withdrawn. There were times when Wilson would wake up in the night to House's whimpering, and he would find himself with no way to relieve his friend's pain. Cuddy was sure that if they removed the dead muscle, House's pain would decrease, his mobility would be permanently reduced and he would face life in a wheelchair, but surely that was better than a life in extreme chronic pain? Though there had been no chance for Wilson to bring up the topic of more surgery, at the moment his main priority was keeping House as comfortable as possible.

It was 3pm and Wilson was working through some charts while House slept, the silence was almost deafening, but was also comforting because if there was silence then it meant that House was sleeping peacefully, he found himself stopping every few minutes and listening to check that he wasn't missing anything. Over the past few days there had been an uncomfortable silence between the two friends. House resented that Wilson had to do so much for him now and that he was so useless to himself, and Wilson felt guilty when he pushed House to talk, knowing that he had to get his friend to open up to get him out of his depression, but also knowing that House needed time to process what had happened to him.

He stopped working when he heard the first whimper, not wanting to go into House until he was sure his friend was awake and needed him, not that there was much he could do but comfort him. Cuddy had authorised IM fentanyl if the pain got too much for House but so far Wilson had held off using it. The whimper turned into a scream and Wilson bolted from the table, only stopping to grab the bag of supplies he'd brought home from the hospital.

"House, I'm here," Wilson said, kneeling by the side of House's bed and gripping his hand.

"God, make it stop, Jimmy, please make it stop," House whimpered, tears in his eyes.

"It's worse?"

"It feels like they're cutting my leg off without anaesthetic."

"I can give you an injection, make you feel more comfortable."

"Please, Jimmy."

"Okay, House, but I need my hand to draw it up," Wilson said, gently, trying to extract his hand from House's vice-like grip.

"Sorry, it just hurts so much," House apologised.

"It's okay, want me to change your catheter while you're awake?"

"It's beginning to itch," House admitted.

"Okay, buddy, we'll get you nice and comfortable and then you can get some more sleep." Wilson drew up the fentanyl while keeping an eye on House to make sure he stayed with him. The worry was that if House's body was put under too much strain because of the pain he could have a cardiac arrest like he had during the infarction. It made Wilson nervous when House's pain got bad, he didn't have the equipment at home to deal with an episode like that.

"Hurry up, Jimmy," House said, through gritted teeth and Wilson stopped daydreaming and pulled the cover off House so that he could get to his hip. Thankfully he was laying so that his left thigh was facing Wilson. 

"Sharp scratch," he said, as he pierced the thigh and slowly pushed the plunger. "That should start working quickly." He disposed of the needle and pulled out a new catheter kit, pulling on some latex gloves. He opened the flap of House's boxer's where the old tube was laying and using a syringe deflated the bubble that was keeping it in position. "Ready?"

House nodded and Wilson slowly pulled out the tube, disposing of it and the bag in a hazardous waste bag before opening a new catheter kit. "You want to use the bathroom for anything else before I put this in, or you just wanna keep still and go later?"

"I can't move right now, Jimmy, it hurts too much," House replied, still biting his lip and breathing in gasps.

"Okay, buddy, I'll slip this one in and you can get some rest, okay?"

"Just do it, Wilson, please."

Wilson nodded, and prepared the new catheter. He swabbed the end of House's penis with an alcohol wipe and slipped the new tube in before inflating the bubble and hanging the catheter bag on the side of House's bed.

"All done. How's the pain?"

"It's getting better."

"Okay, I'll leave you to sleep."

"No, Jimmy, stay with me till I fall asleep in case it comes back," House said, softly and Wilson knew that he couldn't refuse him.

* * *

The pain monster returned at 7pm, causing House to scream out to Wilson, begging him to let him die, to take it away, to kill the monster that was enjoying torturing him. "It's okay, Greg, I'm here," Wilson said, gripping his friends hand. House gripped back, unable to form any kind of sentence as he rode the wave of agony that was flowing through his body. "I'll get the fentanyl," Wilson said, his voice piercing the darkness surrounding House.

"Don't leave me, Jimmy," House said, hating that he sounded so pathetic.

"I won't be long," he promised as he slipped his hand away, leaving House alone in the darkness. The next thing he felt was Wilson's hand pulling the covers off and swabbing his thigh before a sharp prick and the stinging of the drug entering his system.

"Is it getting worse, Greg?" Wilson asked, standing over House and looking at him in the eyes.

"It comes too quickly."

"Maybe you should have the surgery, let them take the dead muscle, Greg, it would get better."

"But I couldn't walk."

"House, you won't walk again no matter what. I promise you I'm not lying to you, I saw the MRI, I watched the operation, read the post-op notes, the leg is dying Greg, don't let it take you with it."

"I'll think about it." Wilson smiled in the darkness that surrounded them; he'd been able to get House closer to a decision. He stayed at House's side until he was back sleeping.

* * *

At midnight, Wilson woke to the sound of House screaming again, he jumped out of bed and grabbed the fentanyl, knowing that they couldn't keep going like this. The pain was much worse and deep down he was worried that something more was going on with House's leg, he decided that come morning he would take House back to PPTH and arrange a new MRI, in fact if this dose of fentanyl didn't work he'd take him during the night and get the MRI then. Anything to stop his friend's agony.

When he got to House's bedside he knew it was much worse than before, his breathing was coming in quick gasps and when he felt for a pulse, it was racing the same as the night of the fall. He couldn't risk it, it was time to take House back to the hospital and check him for further damage. Something had to be going on for him to be in this much pain – another blood clot, more dead muscle or maybe the nerves had just regenerated following the surgery. Whatever it was, something had to be done and if need be, he'd put him in another chemical coma to ease him through this rough period.

"House, I'm here," he said, softly, drawing up a dose as he spoke.

No...more...drugs," House gasped. "Take...the...muscle..."

"Are you sure?" Wilson asked, dropping the bottle and needle onto the bedside cabinet.

"Christ, take it...arrrrghhh, fuck, it hurts, Jimmy, it fucking hurts. I can't breathe, it hurts too much."

"House! Look at me, don't talk, just concentrate on breathing, I'm going to call an ambulance and Cuddy, get you a bed, but right now I need you to focus on me and not the pain."

"Not that fucking easy," House snapped.

"I told you not to talk," Wilson snapped back, checking House's pulse again whilst reaching for the phone on his beside cabinet. House was tachy again, sweat was forming on his forehead and he was beginning to look as bad as he had the night of the fall. He kept hold of House's hand as he called for an ambulance and then paged Cuddy.

At 00:35am the paramedics arrived.

At 00:37am they lifted House onto a gurney, having already loaded his wheelchair into the ambulance.

At 00:40am they attached him to the monitors and showed the grim picture. His sats were in the low eighties and his heart rate was reaching 160.

At 00:43am House pulled the oxygen mask off and gasped at Wilson who was holding on for dear life as they blue lighted House to PPTH.

At 00:44am Wilson put the oxygen mask back on.

At 00:45am House pulled it off and whispered "Set me free, Jimmy."

At 00:46am just as they were pulling into PPTH where Cuddy was meeting them, House flat lined.


	5. More Sugery

Wilson sprang into action, ordering the paramedic to start breathing for House whilst he pumped his chest. They had to wait until the other paramedic had come round from driving before they could even think about shocking him, though deep down Wilson prayed it wouldn't be needed. Cuddy was stood outside the ambulance waiting and didn't understand why nothing was happening until the driver came round and opened the doors and she could see Wilson desperately fighting for House's life.

"Get him into the ER, they have better equipment," she shouted, snapping into the role of House's doctor without a second thought. The paramedics moved quickly, stopping Wilson from doing chest compressions and pulled the gurney onto the concrete, planning to work as they moved. Like they were in a scene out of a medical programme, Wilson climbed onto the gurney and continued to do chest compressions, his legs straddling his friend's body.

Once they were in the ER, Wilson climbed down and a nurse took over the chest compressions, they'd been ready for House's arrival with Cuddy calling ahead, they switched over the chest attachments so that House was now connected to the hospital equipment, which was still showing a flat line and he was making no respiratory effort.

"He needs to be intubated," Cuddy said, looking at Wilson who took the initiative and expertly passed a tube into House' lungs. He then, attached a bag and began breathing for House, ensuring that the oxygen continued to get to his lungs.

They shocked House once, twice and a third time before they got a heart rhythm back. The crowd surrounding him precipitated and soon it was just Cuddy and Wilson.

"What happened?" Cuddy asked, as they attached a ventilator to take over House's breathing.

"The pain got worse, I was having to use fentanyl to calm him, and after a while that stopped working. He agreed to the surgery, which is why we were coming in. It had gotten so bad he couldn't even move, like the night of the fall."

"He agreed to the surgery?"

"Just removing the dead muscle, but I'm worried there may be more going on because of the increase of pain so we need a new MRI before we can go any further."

"I'll arrange the tests, a room for him and called Masterson, he's not on call but I know he wouldn't want anyone else touching that leg."

"It needs to be done tonight, Cuddy."

"I know, his body can't take more pain. Leave it with me, stay with him and prep him for surgery, I'll arrange everything else."

"Okay," Wilson said, turning to look at his friend, laying there attached to a ventilator and various drips that were managing his pain and keeping his heart working. Protecting it from more damage, who knew that pain could damage the body so much? 

"He'll be okay," Cuddy said, giving Wilson's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "If he agreed to the surgery you're doing nothing wrong."

"I just hope he remembers consenting."

"He will."

* * *

Everyone worked fast and Masterson soon appeared in the hallway outside House's room, ready to take him down the theatre. The new MRI had shown more dead nerves, which meant more muscle death and although no one knew what had caused it, there would be further investigation during the surgery and since House had consented for any dead muscle to be removed, it was looking like it would be a long surgery.

Wilson was once again, standing in the observation room, planning to watch the whole surgery no matter how long it took. Part of him still felt guilty that he hadn't been there the first time round when House had had the infarction and was making up for it now, another part of him was scared that if he left, he wouldn't be able to come back and House would never survive this mentally without the help of someone and no matter what he threw at him, Wilson was staying, he wasn't planning to do a Stacy and leave when it got too hard, he'd stay through the hard times, the times when House wanted to die, the times when House was coping, the time when he wasn't. No matter what he'd stay, because after all, that's what friends were for.

He'd thought about waiting in House's room but the empty wheelchair there taunted him, telling him if only he noticed sooner maybe House wouldn't have crashed, so instead of staying with the reminder of how sick House had become, he'd gone to the observation room and watched as they battled to save as much of House's leg as possible. He thought he'd be alone, but he wasn't. House's fellows had heard of what had happened and came to see how their boss was doing, the only way they could seeing as how Doctor Cuddy had banned them from visiting him when he was actually awake.

"What are you all doing here?" Wilson asked, without taking his eyes off the surgery.

"Cuddy told us he'd been brought in again this morning. Is it true his heart stopped again?" Cameron asked and Wilson could tell that she'd been crying and was trying to hide it.

"Yes," Wilson replied, reliving the moment in the ambulance when he thought he'd lost his friend for good.

"He agreed to the surgery?" Chase asked. Wilson turned to look at him. Chase had been working under House the longest of the three and he looked lost without his boss telling him what to do and belittling him. Wilson felt bad for being so dismissive of Cameron's question, after all these people worked with House on a day to day basis and were not made of stone, of course they had grown to care for the guy in their own way. He briefly looked back down at the surgery and then turned round to face all three of them. He was right, Cameron had been crying, Chase looked lost and Foreman was hard to read. It was if he didn't know what emotion to show when faced with the very near death of a man he both hated and admired.

"I was looking after him at home since he was discharged. You all know that he's in a wheelchair now, don't you?" Wilson started. They all nodded. "The amount of morphine he was on to control the pain meant that he slept a lot, but he would still wake up when the pain got worse and up until yesterday and this morning, we were able to just control it, but I had to start using fentanyl last night and it got so bad that even that wasn't working so we made the decision to bring in back in for another MRI and surgery because that seemed liked the best, and only, option for him."

"Will he walk?" Foreman asked, looking as serious as he always did.

"Not once they remove the muscle, even if we get his pain under control, which is the plan of this operation, there won't be enough muscle there to support him."

"Why not just amputate?" Foreman asked again.

"House didn't want that."

"But if they amputated he could get a false leg and learn to walk."

"I know that, Foreman, but, House is rather attached to his leg, it's why they didn't amputate the first time this happened and it was not an option this time round either."

"When will he come back to work?" Chase asked, still looking pretty lost.

"I don't know if he will, Chase. He's going to require a lot of care and I'm going to have to take a leave of absence to care for him. It could be a month, it could be six, it could ever be years before he's independent enough to come back to work."

"He'll come back," Chase said, sounding confident.

"What makes you so sure?" Wilson asked, studying the young Australian with interest.

"It's all he has left," Chase told him quietly. Wilson nodded and went back to watching the surgery. He didn't hear the three fellows leave but when he next looked round they were gone.

* * *

The surgery on House's leg took six hours to complete. There was more dead muscle that the first time round and House was lucky that they hadn't decided to go against the consent and amputate anyway. They had discovered a small blood clot in one of the veins in his thigh, too small to have shown on the MRI, which would explain away the symptoms he'd been displayed. It had been another infarction and had Wilson not brought him back to the hospital then it was certain House would have died in his sleep, a fact that shivered Wilson to the very core.

House was sedated and in the ICU where he would stay for at least two days, it was believed that they could wake him after that when the most severe of the pain would be over for him and hopefully then he would be able to start on some in patient PT for a short while before going home to finish recovering and adapting to his new way of life – his days spent in a wheelchair. No one knew how he was going to react to this news, because although he had consented to the surgery, there was a chance it had been the pain speaking and the emotional fall out would fall on Wilson's shoulders only since he was House's medical proxy and was the one who'd signed the consent form.

Cuddy was nice enough to set up a cot bed next in House's private room for Wilson to sleep on when it became apparent that the Oncologist wasn't going anywhere. He'd applied for special leave and had signed all his cases over to one of the doctors under him along with assigning his clinic hours throughout the department. They would cover for him until Wilson found a nurse to look after House during the day or House returned to work – whichever came first. He thought about Chase's comment and wondered how much attention House would pay to doctor's recommendations regarding work. They would have to get his morphine dosage to a point where he could safely work first and House to a point where he needed minimal intervention for things like the bathroom and other such care that for the moment would fall on Wilson, but if he could get House to focus on getting back to work it might give him something to work towards which would be what he needed if it was going to get through a second infarction and life in a wheelchair.

* * *

House started to stir on the third day after his surgery, Wilson was reading through some notes so he saw his friend awaken and was by his side in seconds. He took House's hand and squeezed it so that House would know he was there.

"You can't talk, you're intubated," Wilson said, looking into House's blue eyes. "I'll do a blood gas and see if you're lungs can cope without it and see where to go from there. You had surgery, you remember consenting?"

House nodded.

"They found a small blood clot in your leg, removed a lot of dead muscle so the pain should become bearable now. Are you in any pain now?"

House nodded so Wilson pressed the boost button on his morphine pump. "That should help. Lemme just get the equipment and we'll see if we can get this tube out. Okay?"

House nodded and Wilson went to work, leaving House only briefly to grab a blood gas kit. He smiled at House as he set out the equipment to run the test, glad that his friend was finally awake.

The results of the blood gas showed that House could finally breathe on his own, so Wilson set about removing the tube. House coughed as it slid out of his throat. He waited until it was just him and Wilson before he said anything.

"How much?" he asked, his voice sounding croaky as he hadn't had anything to drink in a few days. Wilson passed him some water with a straw in it and waited until he had finished drinking before he said anything.

"They had to remove a fair bit of muscle, Greg. There'll be a lot of PT to go through and you'll have to get used to life in a wheelchair. I've taken a leave of absence from work to take care of you until you're independent enough or we can find a nurse to take care of you."

"What about work?"

"Cuddy's leaving your position open indefinitely, but it could be a long time before you're in a position to return."

"Who's going to run the department while I'm gone? Foreman?"

"Probably."

"Oh, coz he did so well last time," House said, sarcastically.

"They didn't have much choice, House. Who would you have put in charge?"

House thought for a second before saying, "Foreman, but only if he could call me at home when he got stuck, which would be most of the time."

Wilson looked at House and realised that Chase had been right, his job was the only thing he had left to work towards, maybe he could talk to Cuddy and set it up so that House could work from home until he was well enough to return with Foreman running the administrative side of things from the office.

"You get some rest, I'll talk to Cuddy about you taking consults from home. It's not like you see the patient anyway."

"What would I do without you, Wilson," House said, smiling as he closed his eyes.


	6. Home

The PT was hard for House, and always put him in an awful mood afterwards, but it had to be done to prevent any more muscle wastage or damage and however much pain it caused House, they wouldn't let up. Wilson stayed with him, learning the exercises for when House was home and in his care. Masterson said that if they could get House's right leg strong enough he might be able to support himself on crutches and although during the cane years House had always refused to use them, faced with a life in a wheelchair or crutches, he was taking the crutches, though there was always the chance that there wasn't enough muscle left in the thigh to support his weight even with the help of crutches, but time and a lot of PT would tell.

"You're a fucking sadist monster," House spat as Masterson put him through his paces one PT session. Masterson said nothing and continued with the exercises, he had become immune to House's anger, but Wilson hadn't and he hated that during the PT sessions they would swap so that Wilson had the hang of the exercise.

"Now, you do it, Wilson," Masterson said, totally ignoring House.

House gave Wilson a death glare and the beads of sweat on his forehead told Wilson that he was already in a certain amount of pain, but if House wanted to walk again, even with the help of crutches he was going to have to go through these exercises for at least six months, they would ease the pain with time. Wilson took hold of House's good leg and mimicked the exercise he'd seen Masterson do with no outburst from House. Between them, they repeated the stretch four times and then it was time for them to move to the right leg, which would start up the swearing again.

"Please, Jimmy, let me have a break, it's hurting really bad," House pleaded, giving Wilson a look that made him feel guilty, so guilty that he wanted to throw Masterson out, wipe the sweat from House's brow and give him some fenatnyl so that he could sleep through the worst of the pain, but he knew he couldn't do that, he knew he couldn't give into House's pleas because as much as it hurt him to do this, as much as it hurt to cause his friend more pain, he knew that in the long run it was the best thing for him.

"Just four more with this leg and you can rest," he told House, determined not to look House in the eye because then he knew he would see the pain there and break and he had to be strong for House's sake.

"Dammit, stop, please! It fucking hurts!" House cried, before Wilson had even a chance to touch his right leg.

"Jimmy's not even started yet, House."

"Fuck off, Masterson."

"Go ahead, Wilson. It has to be done if this boy wants a chance of walking again and you want that right, House, you want to walk, not sit in a wheelchair with a bag to pee in because you can't even go to the bathroom alone?" Masterson taunted.

Wilson put his hand under the heel of House's right leg and started to stretch it the same way he'd done with the left. The difference was that each move was punctuated with either a curse word or a howl of pain from House. He did all four and felt like killing himself for causing that much pain to his friend.

"Right, that's all for today, I'll see you tomorrow House. Good work, Jimmy," Masterson said, leaving them both alone. Wilson wanted to curl up and die because he knew House was going to make him pay.

"Dammit! I need more pain drugs," House snapped, throwing his boost button onto the floor and with a sweep of his arm, cleared the table in front of him. The water jug fell onto the floor and emptied water everywhere, while the glass shattered into pieces.

"I'll get you some fentanyl and some ice for your leg," Wilson said, soflty. Due to the fact that he was only a week post-op they were still using IV drugs to control House's pain and it was especially at it's worst after a PT session. He was usually placated by the fentanyl and would then sleep himself into a better mood.

When Wilson returned with the fenatnyl, House had curled himself into the foetal position and his shoulders were shaking. "Give me a number, Greg. I can up the dosage if it's getting too bad again," Wilson said, gently, worried that something else had gone wrong with the damn leg.

"The fenatnyl will do. It just hurts so damn much after PT and before you say it I know it's for my own good, but I hate Masterson and I hate this place and I hate that I'm going to become a fully fledged cripple over this. I want to walk, I **need** to walk to work. Take me home, Wilson, please, you know the exercises, you could do them at home and I'd co-operate with you, I swear it," House told him, half sobbing.

Wilson swabbed the IV port on House's hand and slowly pushed the drug as he thought about what to say next.

"Cuddy's agreed to have you consult on any cases from home. If I took you home now, and it would be a big if, you'd be in the wheelchair, still cathed and you'd have to do PT four times a day. I'd only have morphine and fenatnyl on hand and if you needed stronger doses you'd have to come back. Do you really want to risk coming back and things getting worse at home?" Wilson asked, planning things in his head in case he got the answer he was expecting.

"I'd come back if I had to, but Jimmy, it's driving me crazy and I fucking hate Masterson."

"That was a bit obvious."

"I'd let you do the stretches, I would, no complaining or anything."

"I highly doubt that, Greg."

"I swear it, just take me home."

"I'll talk to Cuddy in the morning."

"Do it now."

"She's probably about to go home, House."

"I don't care, I have to get out of here tonight, with or without your help."

"How are you going to escape without my help?"

"Rub it in why don't you?"

"Is the fentanyl helping?"

"It is, thank you. Please talk to Cuddy tonight."

"I'll make you a deal. I'll page her now and if she doesn't answer, we'll wait until morning."

"And what do I get out of it?"

"I won't let Masterson do PT tomorrow morning."

"Deal."

* * *

Cuddy answered her page, but only because it was Wilson paging her. He told her he needed to talk to her about House and they arranged to meet in her office. House wanted to hear what they had to say about him, but he was slowly drifting off following the injection and Wilson knew that even if he was breaking out tonight, he would need his rest for the ride home. While he'd been in the hospital, Wilson had moved some stuff over from his apartment to House's and arranged for some more improvements that would help House be more independent, such as rails by the toilet, a ramp at the steps and other such adjustments that were needed to make the apartment wheelchair friendly because even if House did end up on crutches, he would be in the wheelchair for a considerable amount of time, no matter how optimistic he was.

"What's going on with, House then?" Cuddy asked once they were both sat down.

"He wants to go home."

"He's a week post op, he still needs IV pain medication, and PT."

"I can change the drugs to IM and manage his PT and catheter at home," Wilson explained.

"When does he want to leave?" Cuddy asked, sighing. She had realised as soon as Wilson had told him the problem that between the two of them they had already worked out a plan to make it work, they just had to convince her it would work and she had her doubts. The last time House had been discharged he'd ended up back at PPTH in a worst state than before. Granted, he'd now had the surgery and his o2 sats and heart rate were a lot more stable, he was definitely improving and hopefully, within time they could wean him back onto the tablets regime that had started the first time around, maybe even get him back down to Vicodin

"Well, I told him if I could get hold of you tonight, you might let him go now, but if you want to wait until the morning, monitor him overnight I can probably swing it."

"Why so soon?"

"He hates hospitals when he's the patient, I think he just wants a sense of normalcy, so much has changed for him over the past three weeks, he wants to be somewhere he can comes to terms with all of that without being poked and prodded every so often."

"If I let him go tonight, you both know they'll be some strict discharge instructions?"

Wilson nodded.

"Okay, but listen up, you might change your mind when I stipulate the rules. One, he's allowed IM pain meds for the next week, then you have to move him onto tablets, if he still needs IM pain medication after that he comes back in. Two, he will do PT four times a day, six if you can swing it and he will co-operate, any problems and he comes back in. Three, the catheter will stay in for the whole time he's home while he is in the wheelchair. Between changes he can try to bear weight, but only with you present and if he's got a shy bladder, it's tough. Four, he falls, collapses, anything goes wrong and you blue light him back here, understand?" Cuddy said, looking serious.

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Wilson agreed, nodding.

"I'll sort out his discharge papers, you go tell him the good news."

"Thanks, Cuddy, I think it'll really help his recovery."

Cuddy nodded as Wilson headed off to share the news with House.


	7. Shattered Dreams

The ride home had been difficult for House. He'd been flat on his back for the past week or so and before that he hadn't been upright for long so it took a lot out of him to stay sat in the passenger seat. Wilson kept talking to him the whole ride home and although he knew it was so that he didn't fall asleep from the after effects of the drugs he'd been given before his discharge, it was beginning to annoy him. He decided to concentrate his thoughts instead on the strict discharge instructions Cuddy had told him about before she even let him out of the bed and into his wheelchair – though Wilson had had to support him to do that, just like the first time he'd left hospital only this time it was more because he was dopey and his leg was still recovering from the surgery. Once it was fully recovered, he may be able to move onto crutches and not have to sit in the damn wheelchair for the rest of his life, though only time would tell. He found himself thinking back to the night that had caused all of this. If only he hadn't been so stubborn and had told Wilson to stay with him, would it have made any difference? Would the same amount of muscle died if he'd gotten to the hospital sooner? Would his heart have been able to cope with the pressure if he hadn't lay there for so long? Questions he had thousands, answers though, that was what he lacked.

"You still with me, House? We're home," Wilson said, stopping the car outside 221b Baker Street and getting out of the car to get House's wheelchair ready. House unbuckled his seat belt and swung his left leg so that he was sitting half in and half out of the car, then he grabbed his fragile right leg and moved it so that he was just perched on the seat, ready for Wilson to help him stand and pivot into the chair. Wilson appeared with the wheelchair and did exactly that before pushing House up to his apartment and in the door. 

"I'll get the rest of the stuff from the car and then we can do your evening exercises before I do some dinner," Wilson said, leaving House sat in the living room. Once Wilson was gone, he pushed himself to his bedroom because that was the only place big enough for him to lie down and give Wilson enough access to his legs to do the stretches he needed to do. It felt like only five minutes since his last PT, but Wilson was right, he still had two more sessions to do. One before dinner and one before bed if Cuddy's schedule was to be adhered to. He couldn't complain either because he'd agreed to it, he'd signed a deal with the devil to get him out of the hospital and so far he wasn't regretting it though he had a feeling he would with time.

Wilson re-appeared and helped House onto the bed and once he was comfortable, he disappeared to wash his hands and get ready to lead House through his PT exercises.

"I thought I'd change your catheter while we're at it. Cuddy said you're allowed to try and use the bathroom if you want. Fancy a try?"

"Not today, maybe another day. I just want to get this PT over with and sleep for a while."

"Okay, we'll do the PT first and then I'll change your catheter."

"Sounds like a plan wonder boy," House said, sounding a lot more positive now that he was home.

Wilson smiled and placed himself at the foot of the bed. "Shuffle down so that your feet are at the foot of the bed," he said, rolling his sleeves up so that he could get a good grip of House's legs. House did as he asked, though the pain as he moved his right leg was obvious. House was wearing loose fitting scrub bottoms, which made things easier with the catheter still in situe. Once he was in position, Wilson took hold of his left leg.

"I'll do four with the left and then four with the right, you ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Wilson gave him one last nod before starting.

* * *

Six weeks had passed since House had returned home from the hospital. Between himself and Wilson they had managed to get him on a lower dose of oxycodone with severdol for top up to manage his pain and he was now using the bathroom between catheter changes though he was hoping that after his check up with Cuddy today they'd be able to remove it for good. Masterson also had an appointment with House to see if he was ready to try crutches though Wilson had reminded him several times in the past few days that it was by no means certain that he'd be able to walk on them, that no amount of PT could replace the missing muscle and he may just have to get used to being in a wheelchair. To prove his point, Wilson had brought home a wheelchair catalogue for House to look through with several electric wheelchairs circled.

House wasn't ready to give up just yet, until he stood up and collapsed, if that happened, until then he was planning on walking into his office in a few weeks and taking over as the boss again because Foreman just didn't have the same skills that he had – he could kiss ass, but he didn't look for what couldn't be seen, a skill that was a must for a diagnostician.

"You ready to go?" Wilson asked, putting a bag on the handles of his wheelchair and pushing him towards the door.

"Do I have a choice?" he asked, taking out his pills and swallowing one dry. He missed the taste of Vicodin, but in time he'd get used to the fact that he was on the hard stuff now.

"Your appointment is in twenty minutes and I want to check on some of my patients while I'm at the hospital," Wilson told him, pushing him out the door, down the ramp and leaving him parked on the pavement while he locked up. 

Once he was done, he moved House to the passenger side of the car, unlocked it and positioned himself ready to lift House from the wheelchair to the passenger seat. As Wilson was busy opening the car door and getting himself into position, House undid his seat belt and waited.

"You ready?" Wilson asked, having done this procedure a few hundred times over the past six weeks. At first House had fought against him, determined to prove to Wilson (and himself) that no matter what Masterson, Cuddy or the MRI said, he could walk again despite there being less muscle there than there had been before. At first Wilson had battled him all the way, trying to convince him not to be so stubborn and stupid – which had led to arguments and rage and silence, deathly silence as they both slid back down into the depression that hung over them day by day. But then he had learnt that the only way House was going to get it was to let him 'learn by doing' and he did, learn that is, he learnt by falling, by collapsing, by mountains of pain that were impossible for him to climb without help – help that he had to ask for because Wilson had also learnt that offering his help did not go far enough for House to actually accept it, he'd learnt that House had to admit he needed it before it was any use. 

They'd learnt a lot during the six weeks House had been home and not much of it had been fun, in fact _none_ of it had been. Wilson had learnt that House would push himself as far as he could, howl in pain and still refuse to admit he couldn't do it. House had learnt that Wilson cared for him deeply, but he knew that even he couldn't save House this time – no matter how much he wanted to. House had learnt that unlike Stacy, no matter how much he tried to push Wilson away, he wasn't going anywhere and he took comfort in that. Wilson had learnt why Stacy had left in the first place, but he never told House that he'd learnt the truth; scared it would break him even more.

Wilson helped House stand and swivelled him into the passenger seat, making sure he had a good grip on him the whole time just in case anything went wrong. House said nothing as usual, no matter how far they'd come Wilson knew that House had a lot riding on this one appointment, it was as if he was waiting to find out whether or not he would live. He had put all his hope into walking today and Wilson knew that if and most likely, _when_ he failed, House would be devastated. He'd tried to distract him with wheelchair catalogues, circling the electric ones that House's insurance would pay for allowing him to go back to work. He was steady in the bathroom as long as there was someone with him in case he fell and as every floor at PPTH had a disabled toilet with bars in place there should be no problem with House returning to work in an electric wheelchair. Of course, that was not what he wanted but as time went on and Wilson adhered to the PT schedule laid down by Cuddy with Masterson's input, he'd seen little or no improvement in House being able to push weight on his right leg. He couldn't see the crutches working today and although he wanted them to, more for House's sake than anything, he also knew that there was little hope and once that was shattered he didn't know if his friend **could** recover from a blow that hard.

Once House was strapped in and ready to go, Wilson quickly disassembled the wheelchair and placed it in the trunk of his car before getting into the driver's side and heading off to PPTH.

They arrived at the hospital with time to spare and Wilson repeated the sequence he'd done outside the apartment only backwards, with getting House's wheelchair ready and then lifting House into it. The plan was that he would push House to the PT department for his appointment with Masterson and then head off to see his patients and collect some paperwork. House would page him when he was done as House had made it clear that he didn't want Wilson to be there for the appointment, maybe deep down he had a feeling it would fail and he didn't want Wilson to see him fall, the same way he hadn't wanted Wilson there the night he knew the ketmaine would wear off. 

They ran into Cuddy as they were heading upstairs. "Good to see you looking so much better, House."

"Good to see your funbags, god I've missed them these past weeks. Ask Wilson I wanted him to grow a pair and he refused," House quipped.

"I see the time off hasn't changed you," Cuddy said, dryly.

"You wouldn't want me any other way," House said. "Onward, Jeeves!" He thrust his hand out in the direction of PT and shouted at Wilson. Cuddy gave them a small wave as they disappeared from sight. They arrived at PT with time to spare, so Wilson parked House in the waiting room and knelt down to his level.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay? My patients can wait," Wilson asked.

"I'm sure, Jimmy. Go cure the sick," House told him, giving him a grin that even Wilson could tell was forced. House was scared and when he got scared he pushed people away, the same way he had done the night he fell. 

"I'll leave my pager number in case you need me. Don't worry about calling me out of a meeting or anything, I'm supposed to be on vacation as it is," Wilson said, before heading off and leaving House alone with his thoughts.

* * *

"So, House, have you been sticking to the PT plan Cuddy and I set up on your discharge?" Masterson asked, grabbing hold of House's left ankle as he prepared to go through the exercises once more before they tried the crutches.

"Yep, Wilson puts me through my paces six times a day and I'm finally getting off of the catheter, so what do you think? Crutches?" House asked, trying not to put all his hope into that question.

Masterson laughed for a second and then said, "we'll see how you do with these exercises first and then we'll get you standing."

"Fine, but I'm ready to ditch the cripple wagon and use my own two feet."

"One step at a time, House."

"That's what I'm hoping for."

House winced his way through the exercises Masterson put him through, but never once complained. He'd gotten good at focusing on something other than the pain whilst at home because he knew that if he put up any kind of fuss, Wilson would have brought him straight back into the hospital and there was no way he was giving up his freedom if he could help it.

Half an hour turned into an hour and finally Masterson helped him back into his wheelchair and placed him at the end of the walking bars. This was it, it was sink or swim and House was so very sure that he'd learnt to swim.

"When you're ready, lift yourself up and walk the length. If you can make it there and back on that leg with the support of the bars, the PT worked and you'll be able to cope with crutches. I'm warning you though, House, your leg could give out and if it does then it means there just isn't enough muscle to support you and if that's the case you'll have to get used to using a wheelchair because without amputation and a prosthetic leg, there's no way you'll walk again. Don't rush it, it's not a race, it doesn't matter if it takes you another hour. You walk there and back and we can work on speed in time," Masterson said, knowing deep down that House was likely to fail. He warned Wilson in hope that he could prepare House, but from his mood today he knew that there was no way the warning had gotten through.

House took a deep breath and gripping the bars, pulled himself out of the wheelchair. He knew he could do that because he did it at home when he went to the bathroom by himself. This was it, he was standing and now all he had to do was walk a little and he could kiss that wheelchair goodbye and learn to be the crotchety guy with crutches instead of a cane and he could cope with that, it was what he'd been working towards all this time.

He put his left food forward and took one step – he knew he could do that from his bathroom skills. The test was whether he could take a second one. Forcing his right leg to move, he took all his weight on the bars and his left leg and took the second step, then he moved to take the third, putting his weight squarely on the bars and his right leg and his world shattered.


	8. Save Me

Wilson's pager went off as he was talking to a patient about their continuing chemo treatments. They'd only been through one course and had decided that they didn't want to do the other courses despite the good chance of recovery. Wilson wasn't really needed but the other oncologists had been unable to talk her round and it was looking like Wilson had the right tone and ability to do just that. He checked his pager and excused himself straight away when he saw it was Masterson paging him. He headed to the nurses station and asked to borrow their phone.

"You paged?" he said, when Masterson answered.

"It's House, he collapsed whilst trying to walk. I thought this would happen and he's okay as far as I can tell but he won't let any of us near him."

"Is he back in his wheelchair?"

"No, he's on the floor between the bars, his legs are crumpled underneath him and he either won't or can't move because of the pain and he won't let me assess him for pain medication or let any of the nurses help him back into his wheelchair so that he's more comfortable. I want to check there's nothing wrong with his right leg other than the obvious, but he just screams at me if I try to go near him."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Get some IM morphine to ease the pain of the collapse and some ativan, he piled all his hopes on walking today and he's failed and there's no more any of us can do for him really. However, we need to check that he hasn't damaged his leg in the fall and until he calms down there's no way I can do that."

"I AM FUCKING CALM!" House screamed in the background. "I'M AS FUCKING CALM AS I EVER FUCKING WILL BE."

"Tell him I'm on my way, maybe he'll let you get him up then," Wilson said, trying to catch the eye of one of the nurses so that he could get the drugs drawn up. He hung up with Masterson and managed to get one of the nurses to draw the drugs up before he headed on his way to PT. 

What he found when he got there was nurses trying to talk to House who was curled up on the floor in the foetal position, cradling his bad leg. It was like a flashback to the night of the fall that had caused all of this and Wilson felt his heart break a little more for his friend. House had set his heart on walking today, but his body had betrayed him i_again_/i and now he was destined to be wheelchair bound, he couldn't even imagine how House was feeling and he knew that it was going to go downhill some more before it got better. What made the situation worse was that somehow, when he fell, he'd pulled out his catheter and his pants were urine soaked, making the whole situation embarrassing for House and too similar to the night where he'd lain in his own bodily fluids for over thirty hours.

"Get them out of here," Wilson told Masterson, pointing to the nurses. "He's wet himself, he deserves some dignity."

"Okay. I'll get them to grab some scrubs and a gurney, if we can get him into a room, we can check him over for injury and you can clean him up," Masterson replied, dismissing the three nurses with instructions to wait outside with the supplies until he called them in. He stood back and let Wilson make the next move.

"House, it's me," Wilson said, taking a few cautious steps towards House. His shoulders were shaking and Wilson knew he was crying, making him glad that he's dismissed the nurses. They didn't have the right to see House like this, no one did and if he felt he could lift House on his own, he would have dismissed Masterson as well.

"Fuck off, Jimmy," House said, hiccupping as he spoke.

"I know you're feeling like shit right now, but I have some drugs to make you feel better," Wilson said, taking steps closer to House.

"Leave me here to die, I'm worthless now. I can't even take three fucking steps."

"House, no matter what you say or do, I'm not leaving you, I promised you that six years ago and I meant it."

"Jimmy, it hurts and my catheter came out," House half-whispered, his breath starting to come in gasps of pain.

Wilson knew he had to get the morphine into House's system before the pain hit too high otherwise he'd be back in the hospital before it stabilised and that wouldn't help matters. He took the final steps towards House and knelt down so that he was facing House back and his left hip was within range for the injections.

"I'm here now, I'm just gonna give you some morphine and something to calm you down, then we'll get you to a room and clean you up before you go and see Cuddy. How does that sound?" Wilson said, softly as if he was talking to a child. He prayed he didn't come across as condescending, House was still pretty wound up and the last thing he wanted to do was wind him up so much that he did more damage to his leg.

"I want to go home," House whimpered.

"I know and we will, after you've seen Cuddy."

"Okay. Promise?"

"I swear. I'm gonna roll down your pants now and give you these injections. There's no one here but Masterson so no one's going to see okay?"

"Okay." 

Wilson reached round and undid the tie holding up House's pants, he lowered the left side so that the hip was exposed and wiped the area with an alcohol wipe before injecting first the morphine and then the dose of ativan. After five minutes House visibly relaxed and Wilson signalled that now was the time to bring in the gurney to take House to a room so that he could be checked over and cleaned up.

The ativan made House sleepy so it was like lifting a limp doll when they moved him from the floor onto the gurney and from the PT department to an empty room where Masterson checked over his leg while House slept, there was no further damage and Wilson changed his pants, cleaning him up and inserting a new catheter as House continued to sleep through. Wilson paged Cuddy in the end to have her see House in his room rather than disturb him.

"What happened?" Cuddy asked, as House slept.

"He collapsed in PT, ended up needing some IM morphine to be able to move him and some ativan to calm him down."

"Any further damage?"

"Not that Masterson could see, but it is as we feared, there's not enough muscle to support him, he's going to be wheelchair bound for life."

"How's he taking it?"

"Well, considering he spent thirty minutes on the floor, curled up in a ball refusing to let anyone near him, I'd say not too well."

"I want him to see someone from pysch before he comes back to work. How's the catheter working out?"

"He does fine without it, I only put a new one in after the fall because he hadn't seen you yet and he was only semi-conscious, didn't want him to have any more accidents."

"Leave him here for a couple of hours to rest, when he wakes up remove the catheter and see how he does without it. Take a couple home with you in case he needs it, but I shouldn't see it being a problem from now on. I'll arrange an appointment with someone from pysch to see him as soon as possible."

"When do you think he'll be ready to come back to work?"

"I don't want him back for another couple of months, and he'll probably need to find a more suitable wheelchair. Did you look through that catalogue I sent you?"

"Yeah, but House had all his hopes pinned on walking today so he hasn't made a decision. If need be, I'll just order one for him," Wilson said, casting a glance at House who was still sleeping soundly.

"I'll come and see you before you go and let him know my decision. Page me when he wakes up," Cuddy replied, before leaving Wilson alone with his friend. He thought about heading up to his office and grabbing some files, catch up on some paperwork while House slept but decided against it. He needed the time to best decide how to broach the subject of a new wheelchair and how to deal with the depression that was going to hit House full on now that it was definite that he wouldn't walk again.

* * *

House woke up three hours after his fall in PT. Wilson was by his side before his eyes opened fully.

"How you feeling, buddy?"

"Like I've been drugged," House said, his mouth dry. He reached over to the bedside cabinet and grabbed the water that was on it before taking a sip.

"Yeah, you were in a lot of pain."

"I know that, Wilson, it was me after all."

"You ready to get going, Cuddy wants to see you before you go and I can take out that catheter now."

"Is this the part where I jump for joy and squee because I'm tube free and now my life is complete?" House asked, sarcastically. Wilson ignored him and paged Cuddy before setting about removing the tube from House's urethra before she arrived.

Cuddy appeared after ten minutes and in that time, Wilson had managed to get House into his chair and ready to leave the hospital.

"I told Wilson, but I knew you wouldn't listen to him, so I'm telling you as well. I don't want you back here working for another couple of months, by which time I expect you to find a more suitable wheelchair for your job and to have been seen and declared fit to work by a psychiatrist. You can argue with me all you want, but I won't sign your pay checks until I get a report from some in psych. I made you an appointment for a month from now with Dr. Lane, which gives you some time to get used to it," Cuddy told him.

House just stared at her and nodded in the appropriate places. He was slowly coming to terms with what had happened in PT and although he remembered feeling the same after the infarction when he couldn't walk without a cane and how much he'd resented that fact, this time was different, this time he couldn't walk at all and it ate him up inside. He felt that this time, with no one but Wilson sticking around that there was no point in trying to get through this. He felt worthless, useless and part of him wished that he had just lain on his floor all those weeks ago and allowed himself to die. It would have been so much simpler.


	9. Depression

Things did not go well for House over the following weeks. He fell into a deep depression and no matter how much Wilson tried, there was just no way that he could pull him out of it. He struggled to get House to eat, to drink, to even get out of bed, he just lay there wishing his life would end, falling deeper and deeper into the depression that had grabbed hold of him the night of the fall and hadn't let go since.

"House, I say this as a friend, but you need to get out of bed and grab a shower or something because you smell," Wilson said, after the fifth day of House laying in bed, only getting up to drag himself to the bathroom and refusing the use his wheelchair, which led to made falls and Wilson having to pick him up and carry him to and fro, which was no easy task because despite losing weight since the fall, House wasn't exactly light.

"Can't stand. Can't shower," House replied in a monotone, not even acknowledging Wilson.

"You can have a bath then," Wilson said, not giving up.

"Can't get in. Can't walk," House said, in the same monotone, his eyes fixed on a point in the corner of his room. 

Wilson sighed; as far as he saw it he had two options. He could give up and let House wallow in his own misery and self-pity or he could physically run a bath and fight House all the way. Part of him wanted to choose the first option, after all he could only imagine how House was feeling and although the pain was under some kind of control with the severdol and oxycodone, but he still had flare ups when he would clutch his leg and whimper and those were the times when he was most vulnerable and would occasionally let Wilson near him to help him with the pain, though there were no more injections, just ice, heat and the occasional massage to ease the cramping muscles – or what was left of the muscles at least. He knew though, deep down that the only way to get House out of the depression was some tough love, something to snap him out of it, prove to him that he wasn't totally crippled, he still had his left leg and he could push himself in the wheelchair when he felt so inclined. If he ever wanted to return to his job, the only thing keeping him going and this Wilson knew from the way House's face lit up when Foreman called with a consult – it was as if the old House had returned, the one that lived after the infarction, before the fall and the second blood clot and the surgeries, the one that lived with his disability and embraced it in a way only the great Dr. House could – something had to give.

In the end, Wilson chose the second option. House had been wallowing for too long and with the psych evaluation coming up he couldn't afford to spend all of his time in bed. He'd refused to allow Wilson to do his PT meaning there was risk of the muscle's atrophying, which would cause more pain and more problems in the long run. He needed to do this for House's own good, even if he didn't see it that way. 

He sighed deeply, leaving House alone in the bedroom and ran a bath, getting a razor and some shaving cream out so that House could at least shave – his stubble had turned into growth and he was looking nothing like he had done before. He planned to forcibly dump House in the bath if necessary and then do his PT exercises, even if he fought him. Things were going to change, starting now.

Once the bath was full, Wilson went back into House's room. "I ran you a bath, do you want to go yourself or do I need to carry you?" he asked, his voice firm in the hopes that it would break through whatever wall House had put up between himself and the outside world.

"I told you before, can't walk," House replied in the same monotone he had used before, still not acknowledging Wilson.

"I guess that means I need to carry you," Wilson said, approaching the bed.

"Why can't you just leave me alone to rot? No one asked you to stay with me," House snapped.

"Because despite what you may think, I care about you and I'm not going to let you kill yourself because you think your life is over."

"My life is fucking over."

"No, it's not, House. It's changed is all and I'll admit it's a shitty change and if I could make it all better, I would, but I can't. I'm sorry you can't walk anymore, I'm sorry the ketamine didn't work, I'm sorry you had another blood clot and they had to cut away more of your thigh muscle, I'm sorry that you're looking at life in a wheelchair, but your life isn't over and the sooner you realise that the better."

"So, what is this? Some kind of fucking intervention?"

"You could call it that."

"I'm not getting in that bath and you can't make me," House snapped, finally making eye contact with his friend. His eyes were full of fury and rage and a tinge of sadness. Wilson knew he was hurting both physically and mentally and he could only imagine that kind of pain, but he wasn't backing down now.

"I guess you really don't understand how certain I am that this is going to happen."

"Oh yeah, Jimmy, coz you'd risk hurting the cripple. You won't even step on a fucking ant!" House spat.

Wilson threw back the covers, put one arm under House neck and the other under his knees and lifted him off the bed. House fought him all the way, but ever time he tried to loosen Wilson's grip, he'd twist his leg and end up in pain that would make him rethink things.

"You wait until you try to get my clothes off," House spat. "I'll fight you all the way, just leave me the fuck alone!"

"This is for your own good, House," Wilson said, making it to the bathroom and dumping House – fully clothes in a t-shirt and boxers – into the warm bath. 

"What the fuck?" House shouted.

"You can either take off your clothes and enjoy your bath, or I'll get my surgical scissors and cut them off myself," Wilson told him in a voice that told House he was deadly serious.

"I'll take them off myself," House spat.

"Good. When you're done washing, here's a razor and shaving cream for your beard."

"Goody, something sharp, I can slash my wrists and this will all be over."

"Only if you fancy doing it with me watching."

"You're going to watch me bathe, that's just wrong!"

"Yeah, because you've given me every reason to trust you with a razor," Wilson told him, his eyebrows raised.

"I hate you," House muttered.

"You'll hate me more after this because once you're done we doing PT...a full session and you can moan and whinge and complain and call me every name under the sun, but you're doing it. You can sit in depression for the rest of your life. It stops now!"

"Since when did you get to dictate my life for me?" House snarled, stripping off his t-shirt and dropping it to the floor. His boxers would have to stay on because there was no way for him to get out of them whilst sitting in the bath and despite the fact that Wilson had been putting catheters in for him for the past couple of months, he still didn't want to sit in a bath completely naked while Wilson watched.

"Since you were too busy wallowing in self-pity to see that you still had one."

"You think I still have a life? Did you not see what happened to me in PT that day? I collapsed trying to take three fucking steps. What's the point in focusing on the positive side of things when the positive side sucks beyond measure?"

"House, you still have your job and if you ever want to go back to it you have to get off your ass, find a wheelchair that suits your needs, see a psychiatrist and get cleared and make sure your leg doesn't get any worse and to do that you have to start taking care of yourself. That means bathing, PT and getting your lazy ass out of bed!"

House sat staring at the wall as Wilson's words sunk in. He knew that he was right, that he had his job, a job he was bloody good at, but would he have the same level of respect from his fellows in a wheelchair as he'd commanded on a cane. He washed himself without thinking about it and finally looked over at Wilson.

"Can I please do this in private?" he asked, all the anger gone from his voice.

Wilson looked at him for a moment, sure that his words had finally gotten through. "I'll be in the kitchen, call me when you're done and I'll help you get out."

"Thanks."

* * *

House lay in the bathtub thinking about the future. Could he really continue his life from the confines of a wheelchair? Would people pity him? Would his fellows pity him? He didn't think he could stand that and no matter what Wilson said to him, he knew he felt sorry for him too and he couldn't stand that either. He had never been one to ask for help, never felt he needed it, but he didn't think he could get through this, it was just too much.

He stared at the razor on the side of the bath and thought, _Just one simple cut and it could be the end of it all_. He didn't want to die, he just wanted the pain to end and until you've suffered that way you cannot understand that, which was why he knew Wilson wouldn't understand if he just told him and he didn't think he had the words to explain it as it was.

The minute he did it, he regretted it, the water was turning a lovely red colour and he held his wrist under the water to stop it getting everywhere and realised then that he really didn't want to die, he just wanted to know how to go forward, how to get over this.

"Wilson!" he called, not sure how to explain it to his friend, but knowing that he had no choice now that he done something stupid that needed intervention.

"Just coming," Wilson called back from the kitchen.

"Wilson, I need you now!" House shouted back as the blood gushed out of the wound. He'd made the cut deep enough to hit the vein and his blood; his life-force was ebbing out of him.

The tone of House's voice made Wilson leave the sandwiches he'd been making and head to the bathroom. To begin with he'd thought that maybe House had tried to get out of the bath without his help and had slipped and fallen, but surely then he would have heard something. What he was greeted with instead was House sitting in bath water that had a reddish tinge to it.

"What did you do?" he demanded, rushing to House's side.

"I had an accident," House said, holding up his left wrist, which was dripping blood.

Wilson grabbed one of the towels from the rail and wrapped it round the wrist trying to get the bleeding to stop. "Christ, House, do you want to die?"

"I just got confused."

Wilson said nothing and lifted House out of the tub, laying him on the bathroom floor. "Don't move and hold that towel there tightly, I'm gonna get my kit and see if I can stitch you up or if we need to go to hospital."

Wilson returned quickly with a suture kit and some gloves. "Let me see," he said, signalling for House to move the towel. Although is had hit the vein it wasn't deep enough to require hospitalisation. Wilson put the towel back over the cut and motioned for House to hold it in place while he drew up some lidocaine and supplies to suture it up.

"Once I'm done here, we're going to do your PT and have a long discussion as to why I should just take you back to the hospital and have Dr. Lane admit you to the psych ward for a few days," Wilson snapped at him, pulling the towel away and injecting the lidocaine. He waited for five minutes and started to stitch up House's wrist. Once he was done, he placed a gauze bandage over it and taped it in place.

Without giving House a chance to explain himself, he knelt down, put one arm under his head and the other under his knees and lifted him up, carrying him back to his bed and laying him on it with his feet near the bottom so that they could do PT.

"Wilson, let me explain," House started.

"No, House. Right now, I don't want to hear whatever excuse you have for me. I shouldn't have been so stupid as to trust you with the fucking razor in the first place, it's not like you've been listening to a word I say, is it?" Wilson spat. He was angrier with himself than with House, but right then he didn't care about upsetting his friend, he just wanted the truth to hit home. No matter how harsh it would seem.

He should have realised that House was sorry for his actions when he didn't make a single complaint through the whole of the PT session and Wilson really put him through his paces considering it had been over a week since the last time they'd done a session. Once he was done, he watched as House swallowed a severdol and then looked him dead in the eye.

"Talk."

"Jimmy, I just didn't know what to do, I didn't want to die, I just didn't know how to ask you for help, didn't know how to form the words because I knew you'd just feel sorry for me and I don't need pity, I don't want fucking pity from anyone, but especially not from you."

"So you thought carving up your wrist would tell me that you needed help?"

House nodded.

"Do you know what it's told me, other than the fact that you can't be trust around sharp objects for a while? It's told me that you've hit rock bottom and I can't pick you up, I can't help you because no matter what I say to you, you don't listen to me and how can I help you then?"

"Please don't send me away. You're all I have, please don't leave me, Jimmy, I'd die if you left me."

"I won't leave you, but you have to swear to me that from now on things will be different, no wallowing in bed, no carving up pretty pictures on yourself, you'll eat, you'll drink, you'll do the damn PT and you'll talk to me, promise me that, House or I swear..."

"I'll do it."


	10. Life Continues

The day of House's appointment with Dr. Lane arrived quicker than he thought it would. Following the incident with the razor in the bath tub, Wilson had kept a closer eye on him for a long while. They had settled into a routine where House would bathe every morning and then would do his morning PT, which, although he would never admit it, was getting easier. The remaining muscle in his thigh was getting stronger and he could manage three steps before he needed his wheelchair.

There had been an episode a few weeks back when House had been determined to prove to no one but himself that he could and would regain the use of both of his legs through a cane or crutches and he had waited for Wilson to go to bed, had hiked himself out of his own bed so that he was sitting up, he'd swung his left leg over the edge and had gently moved his right so that he could get up, using his dominant and stronger leg to stand on first, which in itself was never easy. Once he was standing on one leg, he tentatively put some pressure on his right, he nearly collapsed there and then from the pain and the huge chunk of missing thigh muscle, but if Greg House was one thing, he was stubborn.

To begin with, he'd managed two steps towards the bathroom – usually, he'd call out to Wilson who would then either support him to the bathroom or if he was tired or had had a bad pain day, would push him in the wheelchair. He fixated on his goal, he was just going to go to the bathroom and pee, then head back to his bed after a small rest and Wilson would never have to know.

The monster that controlled his pain tricked him as he was getting more confident and taking small, painful steps towards the bathroom. He had reached the door when the monster struck and his legs collapsed under him, he hit his head on the bathroom cabinet that had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He reached out to try and steady himself on something, but only succeeded in making a racket as he fell to the floor, passing out as his face hit tiles.

The next thing he could remember was waking up with his head in Wilson's lap, a cold compress pressed against the cut to staunch off the blood flow. Wilson's trusty pen light had been shining in his eyes, which was what had alerted him to his own consciousness.

"How long have I been out?" he asked, his speech slurring. God, he must have hit the ground hard.

"The crash woke me, I guess only a few minutes, but it seemed like a lot longer, what on earth were you trying to do, House?" Wilson said, concerned etched on his face and apparent in his voice.

"I needed a piss," House stated, simply. "I thought I could make it."

"Well, next time, call me; it's what I'm here for." Wilson gently placed his head on the tile floor and disappeared from House's eye line. The first sign of him returning was the wheelchair foot rests appearing next to him. "I'm going to lift you into the chair and then put you back to bed so I can look at that cut and see if it needs stitches," Wilson told him, getting himself into position so that he could lift House. Over the past few weeks and months, House had lost his appetite and was therefore, a lot lighter than he had been when it all first started to go wrong.

Once he was back in bed, Wilson switched on the bed side lamp and moved it so that he could get a closer look at the cut over House's eye. "That's gonna bruise, it needs a few stitches. Cuddy's gonna think I beat you."

"Only if I'm a good boy," House quipped.

"You've got your appointment with Dr. Lane soon, hopefully it'll be healed by then. You have to stop these stunts in the middle of the night. You'll end up doing yourself some serious damage."

"Yes, sir," House replied, rolling his eyes. Wilson had his back to him, getting the suture kit ready to stitch the cut.

"I saw that, now behave or I'll do it without anaesthetic," Wilson replied, his back still turned.

House poked his tongue out at Wilson just in time for Wilson to turn around with the lidocaine syringe in his hand.

It didn't take long to stitch the cut and before long, both men were in their own beds and drifting back off to sleep. Except House couldn't quite shift the memory of how it had felt to be taking those steps, maybe one day he _would_ walk again.

* * *

The morning of his appointment with Dr. Lane, Wilson had decided to go into work to catch up with some of his long term patients and see how they were doing with the change in Oncologist. He knew that his team would look after them, but that didn't stop him wanting to make sure that his absence hadn't caused any major problems.

As usual, House has his morning bath, then they did morning P.T. Eventually, House was clothed, fed, and in his chair ready to go to his appointment. It was Wilson who was making them late as he wanted to bake some of his famous pancakes for the patients he visited; hospital food does not a good diet make.

They set out only ten minutes later than planned and the roads between Baker Street and PPTH were strangely quiet, meaning that they actually got there early. Wilson had promised he would stay with House until Dr. Lane called him in, he didn't want to be left alone with the other crazies on the third floor.

He wouldn't have admitted to it to anyone – especially not Wilson, but he was scared as to what would go on during the session. He had yet to come to terms with the limitations the surgery had placed on his life and with his eye still a yellow bruise from his tumble in the bathroom, he knew he'd have to explain it. Why couldn't Cuddy just let him go back to work? Mental health be damned!

"Greg House, Dr. Lane will see you now," the secretary said. Wilson stood up, put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently.

"Page me when you're done. Good Luck." With that he was gone and it was up to House to push himself into the office – which held both glory and hell for him.


	11. Talking with Dr Lane

House didn't know what to expect of Dr. Lane, he had always avoided Psychiatrists with a passion because he didn't' believe it was a _real_ medical profession since they always found something wrong with their patient and used that to demand more appointments, something that always seemed fishy to House, but if he ever wanted to get out of the four walls of his apartment and back to work – wheelchair or not – he was going to have to get through this appointment (and possibly others) without totally messing up. Wilson had lectured him on how he was supposed to be working through his problems with Dr. Lane not making new ones by being obnoxiously rude to her. What did Wilson know anyway?

"Dr House, I'm Dr Lane," a voice said, breaking his train of thought. He looked up to be greeted with a smiling face and a hand held out waiting to be shook. House thought about refusing to shake it, but then a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Wilson reminded him that this was the person that would decide when he was allowed back to work and if he was ever allowed back or not, so he played the dutiful patient and shook her hand, giving her his best smile.

"Well, I was told not to expect too much in the way of manners from you, I see that whoever told me that was wrong," she said, returning the smile and taking a seat behind the desk between her and House.

"Lies!" House said, trying to hide his glee that his reputation did in fact precede him. "My mother taught me the best manners."

"Have you taken a blow to the head recently?" she asked, giving him a concerned look.

"Oh, my eye? That's why you're asking right, the stitches and everything. There's a good explanation for that," House replied, lifting his hand to brush against the bruise and stitches that Wilson had put in following his fall a few nights ago.

"Now that you mention it, yes, I would like to discuss that, but my real reason for asking is because you may think you have me fooled into thinking you're going to be my number one patient, but you forget that I have dealt with you in a professional manner in the past. You called my profession "the one for people who got their degrees out of the cereal box" if I remember correctly."

"Ah, well, now that it's out in the open, I will admit that I don't believe psychiatristry is a proper medical speciality, I'm only here because Cuddy insists that I get cleared before I can return to work and I'd like to go back some time before I retire."

"So you don't feel you have any need to be seen by a psychiatrist?" Dr. Lane asked, making notes in her files.

"Nope."

"Not even because your life has changed dramatically in the past few months. I mean, you've had a second infarction and gone from needing a cane to get around to losing mobility totally. That affects a person."

"Not me, I am like the sunshine on a rainy day."

"That's not what I've heard."

"Well, you should never listen to gossip, unless it's really juicy stuff about Dr. Cuddy and her assistant."

"Dr. House, you do realise that unless you talk to me, I am unable to help you."

"And what if I believe that I don't need your help?"

"That's not an option. I've been told by Dr. Cuddy that you are to be seen to be declared mentally competent to return to work and nothing you've told me so far makes me believe you are."

House looked stunned, surely this woman didn't really believe she could make him come to appointment after appointment to get him to spill his true secrets, did she?

"What if I have nothing to tell you?" House asked.

"I don't honestly believe that someone could lose their mobility in two months and not have some mental side effects. Do you want to tell me about the incident with the razor in the bath that resulted in you having stitches?"

Wilson – the sneak – he was going to pay for that.

"It was an accident."

"I see, you were shaving and thought your wrist was your chin?" Dr. Lane asked, with a knowing smirk on her face. If she wasn't a physiatrist then House probably would have asked her out.

"No, I got confused."

"About what?" Was she ever going to stop with the questions? He doubted it, so he decided that the best thing to do was to take advantage of the fact that this was between her and him and NO ONE else and tell her the truth – then drink himself into a coma to forget that it had happened, but if it got him back to work, it was all for a good cause.

House took a deep breath before he spoke. "I was confused as to whether I wanted to live or not. I mean, I made them swear they would do it my way when I had the first infarct and then the second I was unconscious, my supposed girlfriend went behind my back and I woke up with half of my thigh missing."

"I see."

"This time around, I was coming the Ketamine and it didn't work, they numbed the nerves and then I had another infarct – smaller one – but still an infarct it was and they had to go in and remove more muscle, though I made Wilson swear they wouldn't take my leg."

"And he kept his promise."

"Yeah, he did." _'Still, he told you about the little accident in the bath the other week so I still may kill him,'_ House thought.

"And what about the problems in the physical therapy suite?"

"That was stress and nothing else."

"You sure it had nothing to do with you putting all your hopes on walking and failing? Nothing to do with you not listening to your friend and your doctors when they told you there was little chance of you walking again?" Man, she was good.

House glared at her and said nothing. She sighed, wrote something down and then looked up at House. "I'm going to recommend that you see me once every two weeks for six months."

"What about work?"

"Oh, I see no problem with you returning once your doctors agree that you are physically up to it. You pose no danger to yourself or others and I don't think you are actively depressed or suicidal, just someone who has to deal with a lot of pain and has had a recent set back."

"You made me tell you all that when that was the plan from the start, didn't you?"

"Why, Dr. House, haven't you ever heard the phrase that it's 'good to talk'?"

If looks could kill then Dr. Lane's family would be picking out a nice burial spot for her at that moment, but thankfully they couldn't so she stood and wheeled House back out into the waiting room, asking her secretary to page Dr. Wilson to come and pick him up.

House sat brooding while he waited for Wilson. The moment they got home they were going to have a little talk about what they could share with head doctors and what they couldn't and if Wilson didn't make him some macadamia nut pancakes to make up for his error in judgement then he really was going to look like a battered wife when House was through with him.


	12. House and Wilson Talk

"I swear I didn't tell her, House," Wilson protested, as he drove House home. House had been in a bad mood since he'd collected him from Dr. Lane's waiting room. The only thing that Wilson had managed to get out of him was that she'd known about his little 'accident' in the tub.

"Well, who else coulda told her? The Easter bunny? Coz I'm pretty sure she doesn't speak to fictional characters, what with her being a head doc and all," House snarled.

They came to a stop outside House's apartment and Wilson got out to begin the routine that had started to become almost a habit – with taking the wheelchair out of the boot, helping House into it and then pushing him to the door and helping him inside. He hadn't returned home since House's first hospital admission and it may have been just him, but it seemed the longer he stayed on House's couch, the comfier it seemed.

"The only person I told was Cuddy and that's only because she asked why your wrist was bandaged."

"And you couldn't lie to her? You had to know she'd tell the shrink she was sending me to as more fuel to the fire that I'm too crippled now to even do my job."

"Cuddy is not going to fire you because you were suicidal for all of fifteen seconds."

"Huh." House said no more as he wheeled himself into his bedroom and set about transferring from the chair to his bed. He wasn't used to being upright and the meeting with the shrink had tired him out, plus the fact that he was pissed at Wilson and he was beginning to get a headache.

"Do you need some help in there?" Wilson called out from the kitchen.

"I've gotta learn how to survive on my own sometime. I mean, you can stay here forever!" House called back. _'No matter how much I wish you could,_ he thought to himself.

"Okay, but don't do anything stupid."

"As if I would." House struggled with the arm of the chair, it was stuck for some reason and no matter how much he pulled, he couldn't quite seem to get it _un_stuck. He groaned and cursed under his breath before giving it one final yank. It came free and struck him squarely in the nose.

"Fuck," he said, gripping his nose. The blood was already pouring out of it and he was pretty sure that it was broken. "WILSON!"

Wilson didn't reply, just appeared in the doorway of House's bedroom. "What the hell did you do?" he asked, spotting House's blood-soaked fingers.

"Stupid, fucking chair wouldn't let me take the arm off," House said, his voice sounded compressed by the pressure on his nose.

Wilson left him sitting there for a moment, before returning with some towels and an icepack from the freezer. "Let me see. Yeah, it's broken alright, here, clean yourself up and once it stops bleeding put the icepack on your nose to reduce any swelling."

"You talk to me as if I wasn't a doctor," House muttered, cursing again that his body was once again causing him pain. It didn't help that his leg chose that moment to go on one of its pain trips, taking House along with it. "Can I have some severdol?"

"For a broken nose?" Wilson asked, his eyebrows raised.

"No, for a broken nose and the agony in my leg," House snapped. God, sometimes Wilson could be so _dense_.

"Oh, yeah, alright. I'll just get you one and you'll take it with water if I have to force it down your throat." Wilson disappeared again and reappeared with House's pills, little pink ones that took him to a place pain dare not disturb. His body was getting used to them now so he didn't feel as tired and groggy on them as he had in the beginning.

For a while he had missed the familiar taste of Vicodin, but since the second infarct and the loss of more thigh muscle, he found that it no longer did the trick and although he hated to admit it, Cuddy had been right in prescribing morphine for him to take regularly. Which reminded him, he still hadn't told Wilson that Dr. Lane had said he was fit for work once he'd recovered some more through PT. He would save that for another time, right now Wilson deserved to stew for spilling his secrets to Cuddy.

"Were you trying to lie down?" Wilson asked, once he'd given House his pills and watched him swallow them with a mouthful of water.

"That was the idea, but now I have to keep one arm on the icepack or my nose will be twice the size of your head."

"I could lift you."

"You're not strong enough."

"House, you've lost a lot of weight since your fall – must be all that delightful hospital food…"

"Not to mention the best appetite suppresser there is – pain."

"Yes, well, all I'm saying is I can lift you if you still want to lie down," Wilson replied, trying not to think about the massive amounts of pain his friend had been in over the past two months.

"Normally, I would tell you to fuck off, but my leg is killing me and if I don't get it laid out flat soon it's going to revolt and that will not be pretty. Not for either of us."

Wilson nodded, having the good sense not to push it with House. He put one arm under House legs, being careful about the pressure he put on the right one and the other under House's back and lifted, expertly transferring House from his wheelchair to his bed.

House one-handily arranged his pillows, putting one under his right leg for support and lay back. "You know, now would be a good time to get back in my good books and make me some pancakes. You know what I like."

"I was thinking about making dinner – something nutrionally sound actually."

"Screw that, I feel sick and the only thing that will stay down is macadamia nut pancakes."

"You feel sick and you want something full of sugar?"

"I'm a doctor too y'know, I do know how to deal with things like nausea."

"Yes, but I've found, taking your cyclizine with your morphine usually does the trick a whole lot better."

"Whatever."

"Do you want me to get it for you?"

House debated it, he could risk eating and then throwing up and getting the anti-sickness med IM or he could take one now and lessen the chance of him seeing his dinner backwards. Of course, there were other ways to make Wilson give him pancakes for dinner and he could think of a few so he nodded to Wilson who disappeared and came back with a single white tablet and some more water.

"Take it with the water, that'll make it dissolve and it'll get into your system quicker," Wilson told him, sounding like he was talking to a patient.

"I do know that, Wilson, like I've said, I am a doctor too." Wilson watched House put the pill in his mouth and then take a large gulp of water. He opened his mouth and poked out his tongue. "There. All gone."

"What do you want for dinner? Other than pancakes."

"I'm not really that hungry, y'know, what with the pain suppressing my appetite and all."

"Not even for pancakes?"

"Well, I suppose I could force a couple of those down if you would be so kind as to make them," House said, giving Wilson a sickly, sweet smile.

Wilson smiled back at his friend, it was nice to see him in a better mood, similar to the way House had been before that fateful night two months ago when he'd found him lying in his own vomit, urine and shit, in too much pain to even reach for the phone. He knew House was playing a game with him, but he seemed to lose at so many other games life threw his way that it didn't seem fair to deny him the small pleasures in life, so he gave House a nod and headed to the kitchen to make the famous macadamia nut pancakes that House craved.


	13. PT and Therapy

"Just one more, House, then it's all over for today," Wilson said, reaching to lift House's right leg so that they would be finished with PT for the day. Since his first appointment with Dr. Lane, House had seemed to lift himself out of the depression that had been surrounding him, he still fought against the PT, still cursed Wilson out when he tried to help and still took more painkillers than Wilson was sure were entirely necessary, but he was starting to return to the old House – the one that Wilson was sure had been lost and that was enough to keep them both going.

"Fuck you, if you touch that leg I swear I'll kill you!" House yelled. He was in agony. The severdol that he'd taken before the PT session seemed to be wearing off and the PT was making the pain worse. He knew it had to be done, but he honestly didn't see the point if he wasn't going to use the leg other than as a kooky decoration or to match other people while he was in a wheelchair.

"House, if you don't do the PT, the muscle will atrophy, if the muscle atrophies you'll be in more pain. Is that what you want?" Wilson said, calmly. He was used to House's verbal outburst during the PT on his right leg and although he felt nothing but sympathy for the man, he knew that it had to be done.

"Screw you!"

"Okay, House, ready for the last one," Wilson said, ignoring House's last comment. He picked up the right leg and pulled it towards him, stretching the muscle and the part of the thigh that wasn't missing. He held the position for a few seconds and then let it relax back on the bed.

House grabbed at his thigh, trying to ease the cramp that was building as Wilson watched. "Fuck off, you've done enough damage for one day."

"How bad is it?" Wilson asked, knowing that he could give House a dose of IM morphine if it got too bad.

"Didn't you hear me? I said, fuck off!"

"I can't help you unless you give me a number." House didn't know that Wilson carried round a pre-loaded syringe with 2.5mg of morphine and 2.5mg of companzine in his bag, for cases just like this.

"Just get me some more pills."

"Okay," Wilson replied, leaving the bedroom in search of the little amber bottle with pink pills in it – House's new stash. He found them on the living room table and shook out two before getting House a glass of water to take them with. He would normally only give him one, but House was sweating and biting at his lip – a sure sign that he was in a lot of pain.

He took the pills to House and watched him swallow them, they would take about twenty minutes to kick in, which was fine, they had an hour before House needed to be at the hospital for his fortnightly appointment with Dr. Lane. House had finally told him that she'd deemed him mentally competent to return to work after Wilson had bribed him with pancakes the morning after the first appointment.

Cuddy saw House as an out-patient, where she took blood to monitor his liver and other things, whilst Masterson saw him once a week for intense PT on what remained of his right leg. There had been talk about what kind of wheelchair would be suitable for House. Cuddy was pushing him to choose one soon and get himself used to it before his planned return to work next month, but House kept putting it off.

It was as if part of House was worried that if he chose and purchased a wheelchair then he would be accepting his fate and that as long as he ambled along in the wheelchair given to him at the hospital he'd be able to hold onto the premise that he might walk one day – even though deep down he knew that would never happen.

Wilson knew he had to talk to him about it, it wasn't an issue of money, House had enough and his insurance would reimburse him quickly, basically he could have whatever model he desired, whether it be manual or electric. Wilson thought that House would probably decide on a manual wheelchair because it gave him that little bit of independence that didn't depend on a battery or electrics. There were numerous catalogues spread round the living room that both Cuddy and Wilson had left open on pages with wheelchairs that House might like, but he didn't seem to take an interest in them, spending most of his time in his bedroom.

Although the deep depression House had been in seemed to have lifted, there was still some that remained and Wilson wondered if maybe it was time for Dr. Lane to start him on a mild anti-depressant to see if that helped. There was no shame in taking those kind of drugs, but he doubted that House would agree to it, which was a shame because they could really help him right now.

House dozed until Wilson told him it was time to get ready to go to his appointment with Dr. Lane. House really wasn't looking forward to seeing the shrink again and would rather have stayed in bed the whole time, especially seeing as how he knew Wilson had been talking to Cuddy about how 'worried' he was that House still seemed slightly depressed, the shrink was bound to have heard that by now. Was nothing sacred? What about doctor-patient confidentiality? He knew that Dr. Lane wasn't telling Cuddy what was said in the sessions but he was sure as hell that Cuddy was telling his shrink how he was when she saw him and to make matters worse, Cuddy hadn't even been wearing a low-cut top the last time he'd seen her. Did she not realise that a depressed, recently crippled guy needed something to lift his spirits?

Wilson did the usual – pushed him out to the car, helped him transfer into the seat, collapsed and packed away his wheelchair in the trunk and then drove him to PPTH where he did the opposite and then pushed him inside to Dr. Lane's waiting room.

"I'll wait for you here, I don't have any patients to see and I'm technically still on leave," Wilson said. He'd been on leave since House's fall and it wasn't that House didn't appreciate it, but surely he had some bald kiddies with cancer that need the over caring bedside manner of the boy wonder Oncologist. Though, having said that, the thought of Wilson going back to work and leaving him to spend the day alone in his apartment scared him to death. He could transfer from the chair to most things – the bed, the toilet, and sometimes, depending on his pain levels, the couch – but he couldn't get into his kitchen, the door needed widening and if he had an accident and ended up on the floor with the phone out of reach, he'd lay there like he had the night that began this nightmare.

"Dr. House? Dr. Lane will see you now," the receptionist said, grinning at him like a fool. House glared at Wilson, mentally telling him to stay and pushed himself into Dr. Lane's office, where the receptionist closed the door on his back.

"Hello, Dr. House, how have you been?" Dr. Lane asked, smiling the same smile her receptionist had been wearing. God, it looked like someone had let off laughing case in that area of the hospital or something.

"I've been fine. No more carving pretty pictures in myself, I broke my nose after my last visit, but that was down to the chair not me."

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy mentioned you had an accident."

'_Why doesn't that surprise me,'_ House thought to himself.

"We also discussed starting you on a small dose of amitrypline, it's an anti-depressant that can also do wonders in chronic pain situations."

"I know what it is, I AM still a doctor you know."

"The only problem I can see if patient compliance. Would you take it if I prescribed it for you?"

"I don't see any need for drugs."

"Well, Dr. Cuddy said that although since our last visit you have seemed more cheerful, more like your old self, you do still seem to be a little depressed and I find that with most patients in situations like yours – where the depression is caused by a medical condition – a small dose of a drug like amitrypline helps both with their mental and physical well being."

"If I say no, are you going to run to Dr. Cuddy and tell on me?"

"Of course not, everything said in this room, stays in this room, unless you chose to share it with anyone. I am bound by ethics and HIPPA laws."

House smiled, she had something up her sleeve, if Cuddy wanted him on the drug then Cuddy was going to pull out all the stops to make sure he was on the drug. "What happens if I say no?"

"Well, then I'll have no choice, but to rescind my initial recommendation."

"So, I couldn't go back to work?"

"Not while I feel you are suffering from untreated clinical depression, no."

"Give me the damn drugs." _'Bitch'_

The rest of the session passed uneventful and House made his way out into the waiting room with the script on his lap. Wilson noticed it before House could do anything to hide it and read it aloud.

"10mg of Amitrypline to be taken at night. She put you on drugs?"

"No Sherlock, she's giving me them so I can move them on the streets," House said, sarcastically.

"And you agreed to this?" Wilson asked, sounding shocked that it hadn't taken a whole team of psychiatrists threatening all sorts to get House to agree to go on drugs.

"Bitch told me that if I didn't I'd have to have weekly meetings with her and I couldn't go back to work until my 'depression' was cured," House explained.

"We'll get this filled on the way home."

"Thanks for your support."

"What can I say, House? Sucks to be you." With that, Wilson pushed him down the corridor and out of PPTH to the car, where he fell back on routine to get them home.


	14. Talking with Wilson

Once they got home and House was settled comfortably on the couch, Wilson decided that if they were going to talk about all that had happened, now would be the best time. Dr. Lane had somehow manage to get House to agree to take an anti-depressant – though for how long, Wilson wasn't sure. They'd filled the prescription on the way home and House had glared at the bottle of tablets the whole way home as they sat in his lap.

"Are you actually going to take them?" Wilson asked.

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" House replied, giving the bottle another evil glare as if he could cause them to spontaneously combust just through the power of his stare.

"Well, I did think you'd agree to take the script, but flush the tablets and just ask for a new one when they should have run out," Wilson admitted and then instantly regretted it because the last thing House needed was ideas on how to get out of taking the anti-depressant. He reached out and grabbed the amber bottle away from House's grasp. "Don't even think about it."

"You're the one that suggested it!" House protested. "Anyway, it's not like I _need_ them, is it?"

Wilson looked House dead in the eyes, he was returning to his old self, but Wilson still stood by his earlier thoughts – that House would benefit from some drug therapy for a while to help him get over the last hurdle of depression that had haunted him since the night of his fall. "You want me to be honest?"

"Would I ever expect anything different from you, Jimmy?"

"Then, yeah, I do, House. You're better than you were a few weeks ago, but I think a little drug therapy would help you get back to where you were before the fall. Mentally, I mean, not physically."

"Yeah, nothing is going to get me there physically."

"Come on, House, it sucks, but you can still do your job, you'll just need to get used to life in a wheelchair rather than using the cane. The plus side is that your shoulder won't play up half as much as it used to. Your liver seems to prefer the morphine to the Vicodin and Cuddy said that next month you can stop seeing Dr. Lane and come back to work and terrorise your fellows the way you used to."

"Yeah, but still, it has all changed, hasn't it?" House said, casting his eyes down. He rarely showed this side of himself to anyone – even Wilson – because he felt that being vulnerable made him seem even more of a cripple than he already was. Wilson felt honoured to be allowed to see him like that, well honoured and sympathetic at the same time. If he could, he would go back in time and change what had happened to House because the man did not deserve all that had happened to him in the last few months. Being crippled by an infarction that went ignored for days was hard enough to deal with. The Ketamine failing and the fall and the second infarction seemed to be all too much for the man to cope with, but he had. Still, it didn't mean that Wilson wouldn't change it for anything, even if it meant suffering from it himself.

"You need to choose a wheelchair, House," Wilson said, changing the subject in hope to bring out the sarcastic, callous man that House usually was. Though the way he had acted proved to Wilson that even if House didn't think he needed the drug, he did. At such a low dose he wouldn't be on them for long, just long enough for him to learn how to deal with all that had happened and somehow carry on his life as before.

"They all suck. Cane's are far sexier. How am I going to be able to look down Cuddy's top if I'm at waist height?"

"I'm sure you'll find a way," Wilson replied, hiding the smirk. He leaned over and started flicking through the various catalogues that Cuddy and he had collected since House's hospital admission – all of them showing various wheelchair designs.

"Gimme one," House said, referring to the catalogue Wilson was holding. "I may as well resign myself to my fate of always sniffing people's arses on the subway, never being able to see over the counter and always being picked last in the hospital basketball games."

"Okay, we don't _have_ a subway, all the counters at the hospital are lowered for people in wheelchairs and you never play on the basketball teams – you say you're too competitive to play with those losers."

"True, true, but God, Wilson, couldn't you let me just wallow in it for a while?"

"No, my job as your best friend is to make sure that you _don't_ wallow in it. At all."

"Couldn't you at least feel sorry for me and make me some ice cream or something? I dunno, do whatever it is girls do at sleepovers. You should know, you've probably been to enough of them."

"I could braid your hair?"

"I was more concerned with the eating of sugary foods."

"House, you've already consumed enough sugar today to keep a small country going, I don't think you need anymore."

"Hey, I'm a doctor, I can honestly say that the human body needs sugar, it's one of the four main food groups."

Wilson rolled his eyes at House, who just looked at him and smirked, before popping the cap off his severdol bottle and downing one tablet – without water, which always pissed Wilson off.

"Meh, they don't taste the same as my Vicodin."

"Nope, they wouldn't. I wish you'd take them with water, House, they get absorbed into the body better then."

"I know, I did take that class too, y'know, what with being a doctor and all."

"I know, just wish you'd act like one sometimes."

"You reckon I can get a wheelchair with flames up the side?"

"I'm sure we could ask the salesperson about that. You want me to make an appointment for you?"

"When?"

"Tomorrow, I'm still on leave and the sooner we do this, the sooner you can go back to work. I know you're dying to think of reasons to get out of clinic duty."

"Hey, people don't want a sick doctor."

"So you tell me."

"It's true," House said, raising his eyebrows at Wilson. He yawned and Wilson gave him a careful look.

"You want some help getting to bed? We still have to do your evening P.T."

"Can't we skip it?"

"No, we can't. You know that if you don't do it…"

"Yeah, yeah, save me the lecture. I already know. God, you'd think you were the only one with 'M.D.' after your name."

Wilson carefully lifted House back into his hospital issued wheelchair and wheeled him to the bedroom, once he'd lifted House onto the bed; he went and got him some water so he could take his first dose of amitrypline. Which, surprisingly, House took without so much as a mutter. Maybe he agreed that he needed them, but Wilson knew it would be a cold day in hell before House actually admitted that to anyone.


	15. Choosing a Wheelchair

The trip to the wheelchair store that Wilson had chosen for House's first appointment of the day passed silently as House tried to come to terms with the fact that he was actually doing this and it wasn't some kind of joke. He'd regretted asking Wilson to make the appointment the night before, because he knew that Wilson would take it as a 'step in the right direction' and not forget to do it. Hell, by now, Cuddy and Dr. Lane probably knew where he was going to spend the day because Wilson was bound to share it with Cuddy who would pass it on to his psychiatrist because she seemed to think that lady had a right to know about everything that happened in House's life.

Once they had arrived, Wilson did his usual thing of getting House out of the car and pushed him inside, they were greeted by a woman who didn't look old enough to be doing that sort of job.

"Why, you must be Dr. House and this must be Dr. Wilson?" she said, putting out her hand to shake hands with them both. She was entirely too chipper for House and Wilson knew that his friend would not be satisfied until he'd made her cry at least once.

"We're here for an appointment for a wheelchair fitting," Wilson said, shaking the outstretched hand. House, as per usual, ignored it and grunted his hello. The Amitrypline meant that House had slept right through and had woken in pain that even the severdol couldn't touch so Wilson had had to use his emergency supply of morphine and companzine, which meant that for once House was in a place where pain could not touch him.

"Yeah, I know, I'll be the one helping you chose your new wheels, Dr. House. Now, can I ask what you're looking for in a wheelchair?" she asked, directing the question at House and not Wilson. She was obviously one of those people that had a death wish. Most people knew not to approach House when he was in one of those moods, but she'd only just met him so she couldn't really be blamed for not knowing.

"I was thinking one with flames on the side, two wheels, a comfortable seat and spikes on the wheels so that anyone who gets too close can get a taste of my wrath," House said, sarcastically. At least, Wilson _hoped_ he was being sarcastic, with House you could never tell.

"Okay, why don't we start with the basic design and we can talk about customisations later?" the assistant replied, giggling at House's suggestion, but totally ignoring the sarcasm. She took over pushing House and led him round the showroom, pointing out all different types of wheelchairs that may appeal to him, but got nothing in the way of feedback from House.

He missed his cane, with that it had been possible to convince people, and himself, that he wasn't a total cripple, but when you used a wheelchair people often saw that before they saw you. Damn his leg for betraying him again. Damn the Ketamine for not working. Damn Wilson and his good intentions, damn it all to hell.

The assistant could see that she wasn't getting the usual kind of feedback that she came to expect from a client and stopped House's wheelchair and bent down to face him – at his level – to see if maybe there was something that he could tell her that would help her help him. She'd seen this before in the recently wheelchair bound, they're so overwhelmed by the fact that they need a wheelchair that they are not sure what to choose or what they need.

"Dr. House, would you like to try any of these out, to see if they're comfortable and what you need?" she asked him. She got no answer and looked up to Wilson to see if maybe he could tell her what House needed. Her training told her that she should speak, at the same level, to the person needing the wheelchair, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Dr. Wilson, why don't we get some of the basic designs down and you can help Dr. House transfer so we can get some idea of what his needs are," she said, feeling exasperated with the whole situation. Never before had she encountered someone who was so unhelpful in choosing their own wheelchair, but then again, she'd never encountered Dr. House before.

"What do you think, House?" Wilson asked his friend. He was annoyed that this lady was obviously trying to help House and all his friend could do was ignore what she said or grunt in response.

"What does it matter what I think, I'm just the cripple," House muttered.

'_Great,'_ thought Wilson, _'he's in one of_ those _moods.'_

Wilson leant down and whispered in House's ear, "the sooner you cooperate and choose a damn wheelchair, the sooner we can go home, so just play nice with the nice lady and maybe I'll reward you with some pancakes."

"I'm not a child, Jimmy," House whispered back.

"Then stop acting like one," Wilson hissed. He stood up to face the assistant that had been helping them. "We'll try that one and that one," he said, pointing out a few basic wheelchairs that they'd been shown. House shot Wilson a look and grunted his approval.

The assistant got the wheelchairs in question down from the display, whilst Wilson prepared to help House transfer into them. House was being as difficult as he could be – going limp when Wilson tried to help him transfer into the first one and dragging his feet, which had to hurt him as much as it hindered Wilson, but then again, Wilson had always known that this wasn't going to be easy.

Once House was in the first chair, the complaints started. "It's too soft, and I'd have a hard time pushing myself with these armrests in the way," he moaned. The assistant expertly removed the armrests. "Now I feel like I'm going to fall out at any moment," House complained.

Wilson sighed as he helped House transfer into the next one, he should have known that getting House to choose a wheelchair so soon after the accident was going to be like pulling teeth, but with less than a month to go before House returned to work, he had little choice about taking his sweet time. After all, if they let House do it all in his own time, it would probably have been put on his to do list and done sometime after the apocalypse.

House was in the second chair for all of two seconds before he found something wrong with it. "The cushion is too hard, I'll get arse ache within a few hours of sitting and we all know I hate that," he complained.

"I can see if I can get a softer cushion for you, one that supports your back at the same time," the assistant offered before disappearing in search of a softer cushion.

"If she comes back with a better cushion do you think this will be the right chair?" Wilson asked.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On how many other places you're going to drag me to if I say no."

"Well, we have three other appointments today and I'm sure every assistant is going to be as equally cheery and helpful as this one, but ultimately it's up to you," Wilson said, not feeling mean in the slightest.

"As long as they can put flames on it somewhere, I don't care where I spend my days sitting. I can reach the wheels so I can push myself and the armrests are secure – don't make me feel like I'm about to topple out. Yeah, it'll do," House said, finally resigning himself to the fact that this was it, there would be no last minute reprieve and he would be spending the rest of his natural life taking morphine and living in a wheelchair. God, life sucked.

The assistant returned with what turned out to be an acceptable cushion, soft enough to not give House arse ache and hard enough to not be too soft for him. Wilson helped him transfer back into the hospital issued wheelchair and they set about arranging the customisation – which House insisted upon – and payment. House claimed to have left his wallet at home by 'accident' so it was Wilson who paid for the chair. Normally, he would have been pissed off, but this act was so much like the old House that he did it with a smile on his face.

"It'll be ready for collection in about ten days. Do you want to pick it up? Or we can arrange for it to be couriered to your home address?" she asked House.

"Courier would be fine," Wilson told her, not trusting House to answer for himself. The assistant was still entirely too chipper for House's liking.

"Thank you, and I hope those customisations work out the way you want them, Dr. House. Have a nice day." House was about to tell her where she could stick her 'nice day' when Wilson, sensing what was about to happen, whisked him out of the building.

"House, just for once, could you act like a normal human being?" Wilson asked, as he helped House into the car.

"I _am_ a normal human being, it's the rest of the world that's odd."

"Only you could actually say that and it make sense. So, how do you want to spend the rest of the day now that we don't need to go wheelchair shopping?"


	16. Therapy

Exactly ten days after the disaster that had been wheelchair shopping with House, a courier arrived with his custom made wheelchair. Wilson answered the door and signed for the package because House had had a bad night's sleep and was suffering in pain. At least he was doing it silently, for once. He decided to surprise House with his new customised wheelchair, so set about unpacking it and putting it together.

It was a deep, dark blue, with black handles and sides. House had asked for them to include flames on it somewhere and they'd done a fantastic job – instead of using stickers, which is what Wilson thought they would do, they had used metallic paints and painted them on. It looked awesome and maybe, just maybe, it would help House in making the transition from cane to wheelchair.

"Wilson! I need more drugs!" House called from the bedroom. Wilson sighed, and grabbed the amber bottle containing the severdol, as well as a glass of water and carefully balancing them in one hand, pushed the new wheelchair with the other in the direction of House's bedroom.

House didn't acknowledge the wheelchair at first, more interested in dealing with the throbbing pain in his thigh, but once he'd taken the pills and chased them down with a gulp of water, he noticed that his new 'cripple wagon' had arrived.

He looked it over for a few minutes, taking in each detail, before he looked at Wilson and smiling said, "bitchin."

"Glad you approve, you still owe me the money for it," Wilson replied, reminding House about the forgotten wallet.

"You'll get it. Now how about we take this baby out for a spin."

"It's not a new motorcycle House, you can't just jump in it and disappear off for a ride."

"Why the hell not?"

"Well, firstly because you're not doing too good today," Wilson said, wincing at the look he got for saying that. "And second, you have your last appointment with Dr. Lane today, in about an hour actually."

"Ah, so I will get to show it off to someone, even if it is the head shrink. Still, maybe I can convince her to take me off the drugs."

"It's only been two weeks, House. They take two weeks to get into your system, there is no way she's going to take you off them now."

"Well, who is going to prescribe them when I stop seeing her?"

"She will, you just won't have to see her every week like you have been. Just every six months for a check up and a repeat script. You know this, why am I telling you?"

"I don't know, you seem to have this uncanny knack of telling me things that I already know like you forget that I'm your friend, not one of your patients and that I actually went to medical school too."

"Maybe if you acted your age occasionally, I wouldn't feel the need to remind you."

"Meh, maturity is over rated," House replied, smirking. "Anyway, you gonna help me or what?"

"I thought that since you're supposed to be trying to get your independence back and that eventually I will have to go back to work and back home that maybe today you could try and do it all yourself," Wilson explained.

He knew that House was capable of getting himself out of bed, to the bathroom and getting dressed to a point, but he'd have to learn how to do it himself sometime and with the new wheelchair that was less bulky so made the whole apartment accessible and he also knew how much House hated being dependant on someone else. The fact that he'd allowed Wilson to help him as much as he had over the past few weeks was a testament to how hard things were for House now.

"Okay, I can manage that," House told him. He got Wilson to manoeuvre his new wheelchair so that it was beside the bed and then dismissed him. He could do this, and Wilson was right, he was going to have to get used to being on his own because Wilson couldn't stay forever, no matter how much he wished he could.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took House a long while to get ready – so long in fact, that they were very nearly late for his therapy appointment with Dr. Lane. Wilson didn't interfere though, he just let House take his time and he would explain that to Dr. Lane if need be, because surely, she would agree that it was time House reclaimed some of his independence back especially now that he had chosen and brought a wheelchair (even though Wilson paid for it.)

Wilson pulled up into his parking space at PPTH and got the wheelchair out of the back of his car, but he didn't help House transfer, just watched for a distance as House did it for himself. Close enough so that if there was a problem he was there to help, but far enough away that House didn't feel overcrowded.

He walked beside House as he pushed himself through the entrance of PPTH and towards the lifts. He knew that House would tire easily pushing himself round the hospital, but it was high time he started otherwise he wouldn't be able to cope with a full day's work once he returned in two weeks time. House needed to build up the muscles in his arms, like he had done with his cane arm in the days when he used his cane, then pushing himself would become easier, but for now it was a struggle, so Wilson made sure he wasn't too far away in case House needed assistance.

Once they entered the waiting room for Dr. Lane, Wilson left House to it, he planned to come back in an hour and collect House from his appointment, but for now he had his own patients to check up on and some paperwork to fill out so he figured he would lock himself in his office and get some of it done even though, he was still officially on holiday until House returned to work.

House didn't have to wait long before he was called into Dr. Lane's office, he proudly pushed himself in, wanting to show off his new wheelchair and the doctor seemed to be impressed with it at least.

"So, how have things been since we last spoke, Dr. House?" Dr. Lane asked once she'd made the appropriate noises about House's wheelchair.

"Fine. I sleep, I eat, I push myself around, I don't carve pictures in myself, Wilson doesn't beat me, I don't beat him and more to the point, I take my meds even though I think they're a complete waste of time, money and medication resources," House told her.

"Surely, you can see from the change in yourself that the medication was a good idea?"

"No."

Dr. Lane let out an exasperated sigh, when she had been asked by Dr. Cuddy to take on House – having heard the rumours about his way of practising medicine and the rumours about what had happened to him recently – she'd known it wouldn't be an easy task, but had been willing to take on the challenge. Now she would see why all her other colleagues had refused the case.

"So, you feel up to returning to work?"

"Ready and raring to go. Just two more weeks and I'll be back to avoiding clinic duty and curing the incurable."

"You think you're mentally ready for it?"

"I was mentally ready a month ago, but Cuddy insisted I have these little meetings with you."

"I really can't believe that you can't see the change this therapy and the medication has had on your life. Surely you must have noticed how it has helped."

"The only thing that has helped is Wilson, he's stuck by me through it all and made sure they wouldn't take my leg and then he took time off to help me. These 'meetings' and the medication have just been things that have stood in the way of me getting back to doing my job like a normal person."

Dr. Lane let out another sigh. She officially gave up, if she couldn't convince House that the therapy and medication she had prescribed had worked than that made her no less of a doctor, it spoke more of House's own stubbornness to realise when he was being offered help and his own problems with accepting it. Something she could discuss in detail with him, but to be honest, was there really any point?

"Okay, Dr. House, I declare you mentally fit to return to work. I'll pass my findings on to Dr. Cuddy. Good Luck and I hope that our paths only cross on a professional level from now on," she said.

"What about the drugs?"

"What about them?"

"Who will prescribe them for me? Or don't you want me to stay on them?"

"Oh, I'll pass on a treatment plan to Dr. Cuddy and as your primary physician she can continue giving your scripts. I see no reason for us to keep meeting."

"Great."

House shook Dr. Lane's hand and pushed himself out of the door. They had finished with thirty minutes to spare so he had the choice of waiting for Wilson or tracking him down. He went for last option and disappeared through the door and out of the psych wing to the fourth floor. Maybe he could drop in and surprise his fellows when he passed his own office.


	17. Returning to Work

House returned to work on a Monday – it had been arranged that way so that he would have the weekend to get ready and prepare himself. Cuddy said he could start working on half days to begin with and he wasn't quite up to a point where he could push himself around all day without needing a nap in the middle of the day.

Wilson woke him with the smell of Macadamia nut pancakes and he expertly transferred himself into his chair and pushed himself to the kitchen.

"You know, I'd ask what I'd done to deserve this, but then I remember that I'm me!" House said, a grin on his face.

"I thought we could eat, then you could shower and get ready for work and then I'll give you a lift in," Wilson replied, ignoring House's comment.

"You gonna give me a lift home again at midday?" House asked, stuffing a pancake in his mouth.

"I can arrange my appointments around that."

"Why, Jimmy, I didn't know you cared so much."

"It's just for the first few days, until you're used to putting your wheelchair in the car and getting it out again without causing you or someone else some serious damage."

"Yeah, but it's mostly because you're a caring vampire and if you couldn't do something for me, you'd die of too little pity."

"That makes no sense."

"Of course it does."

"No really, House, it makes no sense."

"Hmm, you're right, it doesn't. Well, that's because I haven't had my morning coffee."

Wilson took the hint and poured House a cup of coffee. "While you eat, I'm going to grab a quick shower."

"So long as the blow dryer doesn't come out of hiding, that's fine."

"I will find it one day, House."

"So long as it's not today, I can deal with that."

The banter between the two friends continued throughout the morning as they both got ready for work. House was the one to collapse the wheelchair as he sat in the passenger seat of Wilson's car and when they arrived at PPTH, he was the one to put it back together and transfer into it. Though, Wilson pushed him to the front door because his parking space was further away than House's and he couldn't park in his because he didn't have a disabled placard.

He followed his friend into the lift, and out once they reached the fourth floor. "See you at midday?" Wilson said.

"Yeah, see you then."

"Have a good day. Bye, House."

"Bye, Wilson." With that, he pushed himself through the door and into the conference room that adjoined with his office, his fellows waiting. Wilson stood and watched him through the glass for a moment, but once he was sure House would be okay, he left him to it and headed to his own office. It was time for life to get back to normal.


End file.
